


Learning Curve

by persepolis130



Category: X-Factor (Comics), X-Force (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Angst, Developing Relationship, F/M, Homosexuality, Humor, M/M, Open Relationships, POV First Person, Panic Attacks, Tongue Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 15:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11107335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persepolis130/pseuds/persepolis130
Summary: Shatterstar's revelations about emotions, birthday presents, gaydar, prophylactics, and why an "open relationship" is a whole lot more complicated than it sounds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is X-Factor compliant up to issue 214, but guest appearances from other x-titles have little to do with canon. Sequel to Joining Together, Falling Apart, though you don't have to read that one to understand it.

* * ONE * *

On the south end of Mutant Town sits a grocery store with a Mexican flag in the window. They sell the freshest produce and best spices. The owner has eight fingers on each hand and knows me by name.

He is not there today. Instead, a young woman with press-on fingernails and pink hoop earrings stands behind the register. Her dark eyes are skillfully lined, and her top cuts in a sharp V against the supple curve of her breasts.

" _Hola, Señor_. I can help you, sir?" she asks above the tinny sound of the radio.

" _Buenas tardes, señorita. Encantado de conocerla. Me llamo Shatterstar_ ," I reply, and kiss her.

The stockroom is admirably well-organized. She leans against a shelf of canned goods and gasps at the press of my lips against her neck. Her skin is warm and smooth, and her long hair falls against the jalapeños as she moans out encouragements in soft Spanish. 

I have never had sex with my knee atop a crate of chickpeas. I find it very pleasurable indeed.

When we have finished, I select _harina de maíz_ , a can of _tomatillo molido_ , and an onion, and I thank her for her gracious assistance with my purchase. She ignores an old man in cracked sandals who asks a question about cheese and tells me to come again soon. I inform her that I plan to.

Rictor loves _tamales_. He says that the ones I make are almost as good as his _madre_ 's, and judging by the quantity he consumes, she must be quite a cook. He sits in the kitchen while I spoon shredded chicken onto the _masa_. 

"Why are you whistling?" he asks.

I shrug. "I hadn't noticed that I was," I tell him.

He picks at the label of his beer bottle and looks unhappy. "Do I know her?" he says.

"Know whom?" I ask.

He regards the bottle as though its very existence is offensive. "Or was it a _him_?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I tell him, and fold a corn husk into shape. Then I remember that the song I hadn't realized I was whistling was the one playing in the grocery store when I left. "Oh," I correct myself, "no, I don't think you know her. I've never seen her before."

He frowns and asks, "What was her name?" 

I shrug. "I didn't think to ask."

He shakes his head, mumbles something, and downs the rest of the bottle.

I get him another from the refrigerator and go back to whistling. I wish I knew the words.

Jamie appears in the doorway. "Wow, that smells incredible," he says. "What is it? And how can I get my hands on some?"

"It is _tamales_ , and you will have to ask Rictor if you would like some," I tell him. "I am fixing them for him. They are his favorite."

He grins and comes over to examine my work. "Wow, so you've got your own personal chef now, eh Ric?"

Rictor shrugs. "Whatever." He flicks the bottle top across the table.

Jamie raises an eyebrow. 

"Rictor is upset with me," I explain. "Because of the girl at the grocery store."

Rictor's bottle slams against the tabletop. Beer sloshes out over his fingers. He takes a deep breath. "You know what?" he says. "I'm going to make a couple calls about that case. Let me know when dinner's ready."

He storms out the door. I hate it when he's upset with me, but it's so difficult to understand his reasons. 

"Is it required to know an individual's name before engaging in carnal relations with him or her?" I ask Jamie. "Perhaps this is where I went wrong."

Jamie blinks. "Uh… well, I mean… people usually, um… what did you say you were cooking again?"

That night, Rictor is full of _tamales_ and well-exercised from the gym but still upset. He is already in bed when I enter the room that we share, but he faces away from me. The sheets are pulled up to his waist, and his naked back beckons enticingly. 

"I just have one question," he says when I run my fingers across his skin.

"Yes?" I ask, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"When you, what do you call it, _connected_ with this girl," he begins.

"I did not connect with her," I correct. "We only had sex."

He sighs. "You know, I'm not sure that makes it any better."

"I know something that will make it better," I tell him.

"Yeah?" he says, and rolls to face me. "What's that?"

His words may tell me that he dislikes my interactions with others, but his body speaks differently. When I touch him the way that young woman touched me, he trembles. When I whisper the things that she said, he gasps out my name, fingers gripping my hips. And when he throws his head back in ecstasy, his beauty tears the breath from my very lungs. The connection is made, and our _uemeur_ are as one.

"Thanks for the _tamales_ ," he tells me after. He is curled up in my arms, head beneath my chin. "I didn't mean to snap at you. Monet's been pissing me off lately. I think she's still upset about me seeing her naked. Which is stupid because it's not like it _did_ anything for me. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I'm sorry."

"You are no longer upset, so it's alright," I reassure.

He runs his fingers across my stomach and presses his lips against my chest. "I just… if it's someone I know, could you tell me? I feel like you live half your life away from me, doing God knows what, and… I don't want to get blindsided by it one day and feel like a total _pendejo_. Okay?"

"If that would please you, Julio," I agree.

"Perfect," he says, and nuzzles against me like an animal seeking warmth. I stroke my fingers through his hair. We fall asleep with bodies and spirits intertwined.

* * * * *

Jamie tries to keep our lives separate from those of the others. Our work is investigation, not mutant liberation. But sometimes our paths cross, and he feels the need to return to Utopia to discuss the situation with Cyclops and Jamie and Jamie. Longshot and I teleport him there. 

Doors open on account of the commotion-- Jamie disagrees with himself quite forcefully at times-- and from one of them, Tabitha's head emerges. She grins and looks well in the tight fit of her uniform. "Well look who the cat dragged in!" she exclaims. 

I presume that this expression is idiomatic, as no felines were involved in our arrival.

Smiling, I approach to greet her. She grabs the front of my jacket and pulls me into her room. 

Tabitha has always been an accommodating individual. It is a shame that I did not put this trait to use earlier. Though I may have spent less time honing my battle skills, downtime in X-Force would have been much less trying.

"Hey, nice work," Longshot tells me as we prepare to leave. He pats my back in a comradely fashion. I very much like this man.

I like this island as well, and the people on it. The sky is nice also, as is the ocean. The ground beneath my feet feels pleasantly firm, and my legs, a bit stiff from the workout, feel good inside my pants. I like them.

Jamie sighs. " _Please_ tell me your healing factor will take care of that before Ric sees it."

I press my fingers to the still warm mark on my neck. "It will most likely not happen that quickly," I tell him. Then I instruct Longshot to picture home, and draw my blades. The tendrils of his _uemeur_ link to mine, and with a shift of my energies, the portal forms.

"Oh, the shit's going to hit the fan on _this_ one," Jamie murmurs, shaking his head as he steps through.

I hope that this expression is an idiom as well.

A fluorescent light flickering above him, Rictor takes one glance at my neck and turns back to his case file. 

Beside him at the desk, Guido pours the remnants of a bag of potato chips into his mouth. "So what did Cyclops have to say? Same old mumbo-jumbo?"

"I had sex with Tabitha," I tell Rictor.

He closes a file drawer with more force than the act technically requires.

"Uuuh-kay. I'm just gonna… go over there," says Guido, motioning toward the door. "Call me for, uh, damage control."

He leaves. I am perplexed. "You told me to let you know," I remind Rictor.

"I know that," he replies. "I'm not upset."

"You are," I tell him.

He says to me, "I didn't mean for you to say it in front of other _people_." 

"Are you embarrassed?" I ask. His face is rather red, and I have noticed that embarrassment does this to him. The concept is one with which I have not yet come to terms. I understand dishonor and shame due to disgraceful conduct, but to feel embarrassment as Rictor explains it, I still lack the social capacities.

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. "You and I both understand this thing we're doing," he says, "but other people don't. It's none of their business, and I don't like involving them in it. And now Guido's going to feel this awkward need to be 'helpful' and have a talk with me about it, and when he does that, it gets… awkward."

"I will speak with him instead if you'd like," I offer.

"No!" he says, and holds up both hands in alarm. "Do _not_ talk about sex with Guido. _Ever_. You understand me?"

"Alright," I agree. While an able companion in battle, Guido is not a visually pleasing man, and an entire conversation revolving around his sexual precepts would benefit neither of us. I motion toward the desk, piled high with manila folders. "Do you have any work for me?"

"Sure," Rictor says, and grabs a thick stack of paper covered in numbers. "This is a list of telephone calls made from our client's stolen cell phone. We're looking for anything with a 616 area code. Here, take a highlighter."

Several minutes pass in silence. Guido does not return. I find three 616 numbers. Rictor clears his throat. 

"So… how was she?" he asks. "Tab, I mean."

"She was well," I tell him.

"No," he says. "I mean, how was she in _bed_."

"Equally well," I answer. When he rolls his eyes, I inform him, "I am afraid I don't understand the question."

"I was… way back in the day, I was interested in her," he says, then frowns. "Well, I _thought_ I was. She was cool. I asked her out once. This was before Rahne, you know. But I think if she'd taken me up on the offer… I probably would've freaked. Tab's great, but she's really…"

"Vocal?" I offer.

"I was going to say 'not my type,'" he tells me.

"What is a 'type'?" I ask.

"Wait, wait," he says. "Vocal? As in-- like, _during sex_ vocal?"

"Yes," I confirm.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. I am unsure of its meaning, so I continue.

"She issued seemingly nonsensical orders during the act which had me at a loss for a response. Perhaps you might illuminate me. Is there an expected reply to the phrase, 'Yeah, give it to me hard, big boy'?" I ask.

Rictor gapes at me.

I am confused. "Do you think that Sam and Roberto required such instruction when engaging in similar activities?"

The humor in this question does not seem apparent to me, but it does to Rictor. He laughs so hard that tears run down his face.

Guido comes in asking what's so funny. 

"I cannot tell you," I reply. "Rictor says I am not allowed to talk to you about sex."

"Smart guy," he says, and leaves again.

Rictor is wiping his cheeks and grinning. "You fucking kill me sometimes, you know that?" he says.

I smile and go back to my highlighting. I am glad that Tabitha has made him happy as well.

* * * * *

Rictor stands before the mirror naked, still flushed with heat. The streetlights cast a honey-colored glow across his skin. He pushes his hair back with his fingers and regards his reflection.

"You know, maybe I hated Cable, but I can't knock his training methods," he says to the mirror. "I used to have a _six pack_."

"I remember," I tell him. "I used to admire it in the showers."

He snorts and turns, examining his backside. "Too much sitting on my ass and not enough moving it, I guess. I need to get to the gym more. And drink less. Next to you, I'm a pretty sorry excuse for a hero."

"You are a detective," I point out. "As am I. Though you may train with me whenever you like. I begin at 4AM."

He frowns and looks at me, hands on his hips. "Did you really watch me back then? I mean, I sometimes thought you did, but… I told myself I was imagining it. I told myself I was imagining a _lot_ of things."

"Of course I did. I looked at everyone," I tell him. "Until Domino told me it was rude."

His mouth drops. "You showered with _Domino_? When the hell did _that_ happen?"

"Come back to bed," I suggest. I pat the empty space beside me. Domino had a six pack as well.

He rolls his eyes but comes. The mattress dips with his weight, and I wrap an arm around him. His body feels good against mine, and though he may not like the changes, I tell him that I do. 

When I first knew him, Rictor was all sharp edges and hard planes. His heart was impenetrable. Even his words could pierce as with steel, though he never turned the blade upon me. Now he is different, softer and more open. He no longer shuts me out of his world.

And he gives me sex, which beats toned abdominals any day.

"Seriously," he says, mock-punching my chest. "When did you shower with Domino?"

"She knew I had no interest," I assure, and rub my cheek against his. I like it when he forgets to shave. His skin makes mine tingle. "You had not yet introduced me to sexual desire."

" _I_ did that?" he snorts, hands running up my back.

"Mmm," I hum, and take his earlobe between my teeth.

He shivers. "You're just saying that 'cause you want some more action. I thought it was some girl… that night in the _antro_ … she was dancing with you, and you ran out, and…" 

"No," I tell him, and press my lips to his neck. "She just happened to be there. It was you. It was _always_ you."

We kiss for a very long time. I think of that girl and her hands on me, and Rictor's body moving among the press of dancers on the floor. I remember how I ached for him, not knowing what it meant.

"So I'm the one who unleashed you on the world, huh?" he breathes. He rolls onto his back and pulls me above him. His hands skim down the ripples of my stomach. "Promise?"

His thighs slide around mine, and answering in words seems irrelevant.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I attempted Theresa's accent, but it ended up sounding like gibberish, so I'm going accent-less on this one (sorry)!

* * TWO * *

Rictor is upset with me again, and he slept on the couch last night. When he asked what I thought of the size of his _verga_ , I replied that it seemed slightly smaller than average. This answer was unacceptable. I ask Theresa why.

"Are we really having this conversation?" she asks.

"We do seem to be," I confirm.

She sighs and pours herself a glass of orange juice. The reflection of the morning sunlight off its surface dazzles my eyes. I am uncomfortably fatigued. Without Rictor beside me last night, I tossed about the bed like the ebb and flow of Za's eternal battlefield. "No man wants to hear that, Star. It's insulting," she tells me. "Would you want someone telling you that about yours?"

"No one would say that about mine. It is quite large," I tell her.

She mumbles under her breath about "one more thing I really didn't need to know" and takes a drink.

"Why would my answer be insulting?" I ask. "He requested information, and I provided it. He deserved no less than the truth. Why would he ask a question to which he did not wish to hear an honest response?"

"Well, he was obviously looking for reassurance that you find his…" she struggles for the word, " _manhood_ acceptable. When you answered him like that, it was a real blow to his ego."

"But that is not the question he asked. He specifically indicated _size_ ," I tell her. "Of course I find his every physical aspect more than acceptable on a number of levels. As a matter of fact, I am particularly fond of his--"

"Star, have you ever heard of _TMI_?" she asks. When I ask if this is a news broadcast station, she sighs. "Look, here's what you do: you tell him you're sorry you upset him and that you didn't understand how hurtful you were being. Then you compliment him until he begs you to stop. Alright?"

I frown. "And then he will resume sexual relations with me?"

"For my sanity's sake, I hope so," she tells me.

I contemplate this and then nod. It seems simple enough. However, she failed to mention that I should not tell him we talked.

"Theresa? You told _Theresa_ about this? About my-- how could you _do_ that to me, Star? That's _private_!" Rictor hisses. We are in the hallway outside the gym, but none of the others are near. I wonder why he is being so quiet.

"You were upset, and I had no one else to ask," I insist. " I said nothing unflattering."

"What are you _talking_ about? You told her that it-- that my--" he motions toward his crotch "--you told her it was _small_!"

"Slightly smaller than average," I correct. "And she said that this is considered insulting. Why?"

He looks about to kill something. Then he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. He now looks less murderous but still eager to maim. "You really don't get it, do you? You didn't get any of the jokes Jimmy and Berto told in the showers. The ones that made Sam blush?"

"Apparently not?" I propose.

He sighs. "Look, when a man has _una verga pequeña_ , people think it means he can't satisfy his lover. They look down on him like he's less of a man."

"But this is an untrue assumption," I tell him. "Size, in all things, is entirely relative. In battle, a mere shard of glass is ten times more deadly in the hands of a true warrior than is a sword in the hands of a coward."

"Yeah, but all things equal, who would you rather have on your team-- the guy with the sword, or the guy with a chunk of glass?" he asks. The corners of his lips pull downward, and a furrow appears between his brows. I interpret this as a sign of great displeasure. It upsets me.

"You would not know how to properly employ a sword in battle," I begin.

"That's reassuring, thanks," he interrupts.

"However, your _verga_ brings me great pleasure in a way which weaponry cannot," I assure him. 

"I-- uh, thanks," he says, color flooding his cheeks. His eyes seem unable to meet mine, and he rubs at the back of his neck. "But I'm sure it would bring you, you know, _more_ pleasure if there was more of it to… pleasure you with."

I shake my head. "I find this doubtful."

His expression indicates that he disbelieves me.

I endeavor to explain. "If it were as large as mine, I would have difficulty fitting it into my mouth," I tell him. "This would be a terrible shame, as I find the act quite stimulating."

He blinks at me for several moments, turning an inexplicable shade of crimson. Then he snorts. "You know, _amigo_ , talking about sex with you is a real trip."

"A trip to where?" I ask.

He laughs, and relief fills me: he is not angry. "To some crazy land where I don't have a clue what's going on," he says. He steps close and brings a hand to the zipper on my shirt. "But it's a nice place, I guess."

"How nice of a place?" I ask as his fingers slide the metal down my chest.

"Mmm," he answers, and a palm curves around my backside. " _Very_ nice."

I smile and wrap my arms around his waist. "Does it look like our bedroom?"

"As a matter of fact," he murmurs, lips brushing against mine, "I think it does."

Up in our room, we remove each other's clothing, and I prove to him the truth in my words. He writhes against the sheets, back arching and fingers tugging at the sheered locks of my hair. Lips parted, he moans my name as though it has been weeks, and not just one night. The taste of him is always sweet against my tongue.

It is not until afterwards, when I am drifting off on the pillow beside him, that I remember Theresa's advice. I was supposed to flatter him until he made me stop.

"Julio," I whisper. "I find every aspect of your being to be physically, mentally, and emotionally enlightening. It is in all ways aesthetically and tactilely sufficient."

"I have no idea what that means," he tells me. "Go to sleep, _corazon_."

I smile and do as he says.

* * * * *

I have nearly finished my workout, and Rictor has nearly finished his work. We will go out tonight for burgers and a movie. Tron is playing on the big screen for Retro Flix Friday. The others call this "a date."

Rictor perches on my back examining police reports as I do push-ups. The extra weight helps tone the muscle, and I like the way his bare feet rest against my backside. 376, 377, 378, 379…

"I, um," Rictor says. "I feel good. I mean, about us. I feel like we're in a good place together."

"I agree," I tell him, as anywhere I can exercise with him atop me seems to be a good place. I sometimes like him beneath me as well. 387, 388, 389…

"You know I've never really… had someone before. Not long-term, anyway," he continues, fingers rustling the papers. "Sometimes I feel like I'm messing up, and… I know I need to work on being less sensitive. I get really down on myself whenever things get weird. I recognize that."

405, 406, 407, 408, 409…

"I just want you to be happy," he tells me. "That's what it's all about."

"I am," I assure him.

"Okay. Okay, good. Because, I mean… if you're _not_ , you should tell me. If I do things that make you mad or… anything. Or if you maybe…" he swallows, "start to like someone else more. Just let me know. Okay?"

"That would never happen," I tell him. 432, 433, 434… "You are my best friend."

"Okay," he says, and runs his fingernails through my hair. I shiver and nearly fall on my face. Rictor can do the most amazing things with his hands. And various other portions of his anatomy. "You almost ready for a shower?"

I have lost count, but this seems a trifling matter. Much more important is hauling Rictor over my shoulder, out of the gym, and into the bathroom. His skin is slippery-smooth beneath the spray of the showerhead, and his mouth burns mine.

I cannot wait to see Tron with him.

* * * * * 

Rictor hates doing laundry. He especially hates doing laundry when Layla is washing her lingerie. The delicate cycle takes twice as long, and she sits atop the washing machine and utters prophetic irrationalities to anyone who attempts to take note of the machine's clunking progress. I stand before her with a basket of Rictor's and my clothing in my arms.

"One day, you're going to be glad I've never had my nails done before," she tells me.

"Perhaps," I tell her, and crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the dial behind her.

"Also," she adds, shifting to cover it with her body, "that tattoo's going to come in handy really soon."

"Doubtful," I reply, as my brand is a sign of slavery-- a hateful thing. I cannot believe that I ever connected with someone so incomprehensible. I consider the ramifications of physically removing her person from the washing machine. 

"Oh, don't bother," she says. "The washer's about to break, and you'll have to go to a laundromat. The one on the corner's cheap. They're really busy right now, though, so you should probably wait a while. They're open 24 hours."

Then, as though an actor taking a cue, the washing machine begins to gurgle. Layla kicks her boots against it, leaving black scuffmarks along the side of the white metal. A screeching noise fills the room, followed by a rush of water, which gushes out from beneath the machine.

"Wow, sounds like it just ate my bra," Layla says with a shrug. "I really loved that one, too. It had a little pink bow between the cups. Super cute. Wonder where I should go for a new one. Have you ever been to Toronto?"

I leave the room before the water reaches my boots and take our laundry to the gym with me. I will go to the laundromat after dinner.

When I finish working out, Rictor is playing poker with Guido, Jamie, and Jamie. Monet and Longshot are out, Layla is washing machine shopping online, and Theresa is making something in the kitchen that smells like burning fuel oil.

"Is that dinner?" I ask.

"Don't worry, we ordered pizza," Jamie tells me.

"Did you order one with northern style pig slices?" I ask. 

"It's called _Canadian bacon_ , Star," says Rictor. "And of course I ordered you one."

I smile, as this is my favorite. It makes me happy that Rictor knows me so well and indulges me in exotic, imported meats.

"Damn it all," bemoans Guido, throwing his cards down on the table. He eyes one of the Jamies. "You sure you two aren't using telepathy or something? 'Cause that's cheating no matter how you slice it."

"Definitely not cheating," Jamie says.

"Yeah," Jamie agrees, jerking a thumb toward the other. "I don't even _like_ that guy."

"The feeling's mutual. Hey, want me to deal you in, Shatterstar?" Jamie asks. "Better yet, you can take my dupe's place."

"Fuck you, I'm _winning_!" Jamie tells him.

"Yeah, and I'm getting my ass handed to me," says Guido. "Reabsorb him, Jamie!"

"You ever played poker, Star?" Rictor asks as the two Jamies argue about redistribution of their small plastic chips. "I can teach you-- it's pretty simple."

"I believe I would rather watch," I tell him. I don't know why Jamie has been handling Guido's ass, but I would prefer that mine not meet the same fate. 

By the time I make it to the laundromat, it is nearly 2 AM. I am the only person there. Layla was thoughtful to have sent me: a television plays in each corner, and if I position myself correctly, I can do sit-ups and watch three programs at one time. 

After twenty minutes, I have moved on to lunges, and a young man enters carrying an armful of sheets. He has a metal bar pierced through the top of one ear, a ring through his nose, and numerous designs inked onto his arms and neck. 

He loads his laundry into the machine nearest the door and swears when it refuses to accept his change. He hits it several times, sighs, and turns to me. His eyes are dark, lips full, and his waist is slender and appealing.

"Nice tattoo," he tells me. "Wanna fuck?"

The next morning, Rictor drinks too-strong coffee and flatly refuses to pierce his tongue. He says that such piercings carry certain sexual connotations, though he is unable to explain why these would be undesirable. They seem apt. 

"And besides," he says, "it'd be a week before I could talk right, and those things are horrible for chipping your teeth. You know I like dental work about as much as I liked Cable's surprise 5 AM training sessions."

I consider the sheer number of expletives employed during our training sessions and come to a suitable conclusion: "You will come with me tonight."

He makes a face at the taste of his coffee, which I suspect has the consistency of sludge. "I already told you I'm not getting my tongue-- or anything else-- pierced for you. What did you get up to last night, anyway? Some sort of S&M club or something? You said you were doing laundry."

"Is an S&M club more like a golf club or a dance club?" I ask. I have not heard this term before.

"Um, sort of like both at the same time," he tells me. "But I am _really_ not awake enough right now to explain it. And I'm not getting my tongue pierced."

"I understand. That is why I will pierce mine," I inform him.

He sighs and regards his styrofoam cup as though terribly disappointed in it. I resolve to purchase him a proper coffee maker tonight as well. I have little doubt that he will be pleased by both acquisitions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of both Cadre and Spanish this time, but the only expression that doesn't seem self-explanatory (to me, at least) is "No voy a dejar que me dejes," which means "I won't let you leave me." Again, no accents will be attempted!

* * THREE * *

"Rahne says that you jumped off a building," I tell Rictor.

He looks up from his magazine. "Um, sort of busy here?"

I close the bathroom door and cross my arms. "She says that you intended to kill yourself. We will address this issue," I inform him.

He sighs and shifts against the toilet seat. "Can we talk about this in, like, five minutes? Because I'm not really comfortable with--"

"We will speak about it now. You have already kept this from me for too long," I insist.

He makes a face and pulls his jeans up to his knees. Men's Heath sits across his lap, a weak shield in the face of my attack. "We'll talk about it, okay. I promise. But could I please finish taking a crap first?"

"No," I tell him.

He sighs and tugs at the toilet paper. "Look, I was going through a… bad spell. I'd just lost my powers, and it felt like my whole world was ending, and--"

"And splattering your brains across the pavement seemed like a valid option," I finish for him.

"I changed my mind," he insists. "I didn't jump. Jamie's dupe pushed--"

"If Rahne and Jamie had not been there, you would have jumped," I snap. 

"Star, I--" he sighs. "Could you at least turn the other way for ten seconds? I'm not going anywhere. You're in front of the door, and the window's too small to get out of."

"No," I tell him. "I am very upset with you."

And I am. I am so upset that my nails bite into my palms, and my jaw clenches. Something vicious bubbles up inside of me, threatening to take over. The emotion feels like the rage of battle, but it is not him I wish to destroy. I do not understand it, and I do not like it.

"You don't have to worry, it won't happen again," he tells me. "I was feeling really down, but I'm not anymore. I'm happy here. With _you_. Okay?"

"You made me leave!" I insist, not convinced. "In Mexico, after putting your cousin in jail, you told me--"

"Star, I was confused!" he says. He makes use of the toilet paper but does not stand.  
"I never should've done that to you, and I'm sorry. I just… needed time to think. I didn't have a hold on my own feelings."

"You told _me_ to leave. You said that _I_ was the one who needed time. That _I_ was the one who did not understand _my_ feelings!" I inform him.

His brow furrows and lips twist unhappily. "I _know_ that, and I'm sorry, okay? What else do you want me to say?"

The angry feeling does not go away. It squeezes my insides like hands around a windpipe. "We will not part again. I refuse to allow it."

"Star, come on. Don't--"

"You will agree to this," I demand. "There is no option!"

" _Por favor,_ Star, _no te_ \--"

"When you are alone, you do foolish things! You will not leave me!" I shout. _"No voy a dejar que me dejes!_ "

" _Calmate, corazon_ ," he urges, up beside me with his hands on my shoulders. "Everything's fine." 

But it doesn't help, and I pull away from him. "Nothing is fine! _Duspla-nja!_ " My mind blurs, and the words sound like someone else is saying them. The room presses in on me like a vice, and I squeeze my eyes shut so tightly they hurt. " _Chunplen!_ " I cry out with another man's voice. 

_"Codlista, dusplaj'ne, esta bien!_ No one's leaving, alright?" Rictor's hand wraps around my wrist. Blood drips from my knuckles. They sting. 

"Excuse me? Is everything okay in there?" a voice asks from the hallway.

"Not now, Rahne," Rictor tells her, looking at the hole in the drywall. I do not remember punching it.

"I'm sorry, Ric… Layla's in the bathroom downstairs," Rahne says, "and the baby's sitting right on my bladder…"

I shake my hand and attempt to squeeze the fingers together. The appendage seems quite broken. I take a deep breath and rest my head against Rictor's shoulder. His _uemeur_ is warm and soft against mine. It untangles my twisted threads of emotion. The ends are bare and unraveling.

Rictor sighs. "Yeah, just… hold on a minute," he tells Rahne.

Turning back to me, he smoothes a hand across my shoulders and murmurs, "You alright?" 

"Fine," I tell him. I don't know if this is a lie. My hand will heal in minutes, but my ears are still buzzing, and my stomach feels unsettled. "But you must swear it to me on your honor as a warrior. Swear that you'll never leave me again."

"Well, I don't have much honor, and I'm not a warrior, but sure," he says. " _You're_ the one who wants to sleep with other people." It sounds like an accusation. I do not understand it.

"Ric?" Rahne pleads. "I'm sorry, but I _really_ have to go!"

Rictor sighs, kisses my cheek, and pulls up his pants. He reaches behind me and opens the door.

"Could you not tell him stuff that freaks him out?" he says to her.

She frowns and bites her lip, hand against the swell of her stomach. "I thought you told him! How was _I_ supposed to know?"

"Look, he's sort of sensitive, Rahne," Rictor tells her. "He's still figuring out his emotions, kind of like a little kid, and the last thing he needs is you overloading them."

"Well," she counters, "maybe you shouldn't be sleeping with someone with the emotional maturity of a little _kid_."

"I can hear you both," I inform them. "And I am not a kid."

Rictor and Rahne exchange an incomprehensible look. Rahne lowers her eyes.

"Sorry, Ric," she says. "Hormones. And too much lemonade."

Rictor sighs and tugs on my arm. "Come on, let's let Rahne use the bathroom. We need to work on that case before Jamie gets back, or he's gonna pitch a fit."

Downstairs, I sit beside him as he scans ebay listings for our client's stolen merchandise. Monet believes that the pink Fendi handbag will be a dead giveaway, if placed on the market. "Why don't you get on the laptop and check craigslist?" he asks.

"I would prefer not to," I inform him.

He gives me a look which might be concern.

"I am tired," I tell him. But this is not quite right. "My _uemeur_ is tired."

He nods. "Yeah, I know the feeling. Why don't you try taking a nap? I know it's not the same thing, but it might help."

"I would rather just watch you," I say. 

He gives me another look that I do not understand and reaches out to cup my cheek. I press a kiss against the warm skin of his palm. I imagine him never touching me again, and my stomach lurches.

"It's going to be alright," he promises.

"Okay," I agree, and take his hand in mine. My knuckles are healed, and the swelling is nearly gone. In a few minutes, it will be as though it was never injured.

If only my emotions could heal so quickly.

That night in bed, I feel a desperation I've never known before, and nothing seems to be enough. Our bodies come together over and over, skin covered in sweat and limbs exhausted, but still I crave more. 

"Don't," he murmurs as I draw him to me once more, lips bruised from my kisses. "I'm gonna pass out if we do it again."

"Good," I whisper against his neck.

He gasps, " _Dios_ …"

" _Te amo_ ," I tell him, and cover his mouth and his body with my own. When he goes limp in my arms, I hold him and watch the sun rise upon a day we might never have had.

The indefinable feeling in my chest subsides but does not leave me. I take hold of it, twist its neck, break its spine. It looks up at me with unseeing eyes. A smile spreads across its dead lips.

I pull Rictor closer and do my best to forget about it. 

Emotions can be frightening things.

* * * * *

Rictor's birthday is tomorrow. Twenty-two years ago, he was born in Guadalajara to a mother who died when he was a child and a father who would be murdered in front of his eyes. I have no idea how old I am. I was never born to anyone and have never celebrated a birthday. When Theresa asks what I will give Rictor as a present, I admit that I have purchased nothing. 

She and Monet take me to the mall.

We end up in a large department store with more mazelike passageways than Murderworld. I look at leather jackets because Rictor looks nice in them, and he says that New York is too cold. Each sleeve is attached to the display case by a metal band. Monet says that this is to prevent shoplifting. She advises me not to cut them with my swords.

I ask my companions if the jacket I have selected-- jet black with white piping down the sleeves-- would make an appropriate gift. It would accentuate Rictor's shoulders superbly. But they are distracted.

"Oh, handbags!" exclaims Theresa. "Do you think I can use my 15% off coupon on those?"

"Hmm. I didn't know they carried Coach here," says Monet. 

They leave me standing with the jacket in my hands, unsure of its suitability but positive that Rictor would not appreciate a handbag. I hang the jacket back on the rack and begin a systematic search of the premises by zone and priority level. 

The shining lights of the jewelry booth catch my eye. A woman with dark lipstick and a brightly bleached smile asks if I require assistance. A plastic tag on her shirt indicates that she is called Patti.

"I come in search of a birthday present, Patti. Have you any jewelry suitable for an attractive young man of Hispanic origin?" I ask. She smiles her overly bright smile and shows me to a case.

When Theresa and Monet return with their purchases, I am counting out three hundred twenty five dollars in paper bills and fifty four cents in coin. Hopefully, this is an appropriate amount for a gift. Patti has placed my purchase within a velvet box bearing the store's name. 

"You bought him jewelry?" Theresa asks. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I'm not sure Ric's really one for, ah…"

"Bling?" I suggest.

"I have no idea where you heard that word," Monet says, "but please never say it again."

"I have been promised by a certified Customer Service Specialist that my selection is both gender and age appropriate," I assure her. "I believe that Rictor will like it."

"Would you like the receipt in the bag, sir?" Patti asks.

"I'll take it," Theresa says. "The return policy is thirty days, right?"

On our way out, Theresa is distracted by a storefront exhibiting an mind-numbing array of scented candles. Monet insists that they smell like a brothel in Bangkok, but they both enter the store nonetheless. Wondering idly why Monet would frequent such establishments, I excuse myself for a trip to the Food Court to use the bathroom. 

Outside the door to the ladies' room stands a line of young women with glittery bags of cosmetics. One sprays perfume that Monet would not approve of. I nod at them, and they titter amongst themselves like nestling birds.

"Hello, ladies," I say, and smile. 

I am exchanging phone numbers with one of the young women when Theresa approaches. She has another shopping bag slung over her shoulder, but the scowl on her face does not bode well. "What do you think you're doing?" she demands.

"Making use of the facilities," I tell her as my nestlings giggle, tug at each other's arms, and retreat for the Food Court.

"See you later," says the one whose number I have programmed into my cellphone. She flutters her eyelashes at me. Her name is Briana.

"Shame on you, Shatterstar!" Theresa scolds. "Flirting with other people when you're supposed to be shopping for Ric! And with _schoolgirls_!" 

"I have already succeeded in purchasing an excellent gift," I say, holding up my own bag to remind her. "Has my mission not been accomplished?"

"Maybe so, but how would you feel if the shoe were on the other foot?" she demands.

"Why would I put my shoes on the wrong feet?" I ask. "It would be terribly uncomfortable."

She sighs. "What I _mean_ is, how would you like it if _he_ were involved with other people? How would that make _you_ feel?"

"Would I get to watch?" I ask. It is a shame that Rictor is uninterested in such things. The idea is quite an enticing one. 

Theresa throws up her hands in frustration. " _Men!_ " she exclaims.

I fail to comprehend this interjection.

* * * * *

That night, after Rictor has consumed nearly inhuman portions of both beer and cake, miraculously without vomiting, we sit together on our bed. "For you," I tell him, and pull the gift from my pocket.

"You really didn't need to get me anything, _amigo_ ," he says, slurring slightly but smiling. "It's enough just being with you."

"I really did. Monet and Theresa insisted. Also," I add, "I like to make you happy. If you are not pleased by my selection, I will return it and purchase you something more suitable. Theresa kept the receipt."

He takes the velvet box in his hands and frowns at it. "Is this jewelry?" he asks, looking doubtful.

"The return policy is thirty days. Please open it," I tell him. 

Offering another dubious look, he cracks open the box and looks inside. Blinking, he holds up the bracelet. Cords of blackened metal entwine thick silver plates cut in the shape of the symbol of his god.

"Wow, that's… not what I expected. It's actually really nice," he says, and more closely examines it. 

"Yes," I agree. "It is."

He snorts, shoves at me playfully, and wraps it around his wrist. "Here, do the hook thing for me…"

"Clasp," I inform him, and take the metal between my fingers. It is cold against the warmth of his skin and reminds me of the comforting feel of my blades.

"You know, it's… sort of weird," he says, admiring the look of the bracelet on his wrist, eyes slightly glazed over. "I mean, I always pictured myself buying jewelry for a girl. Not, you know, someone buying it for _me_. That's not the way it's supposed to work. But it's not so bad, I guess."

"You guess?" I ask, as jewelry purchasing seems to hold a connotation unknown to me. I wish that Theresa and Monet had explained. I presumed only that they had questioned my taste.

He shrugs. "Sometimes, life turns out different than what you planned, that's all. But I really like the bracelet. And I like my life, too. For a long time, I couldn't say that, but… I do. So. Thanks."

I smile and take his hand. "I would like to see you wearing my gift," I tell him.

"Uh, I am," he tells me. "I really like it. I think I'll just keep it on all the time."

"No," I tell him, and run a hand down his chest. "I want to see you wearing _only_ my gift."

He blinks at me for a moment before comprehension dawns upon him. This sometimes happens when he's been drinking. "I should've guessed that was the plan," he grins.

"If it involves you naked, it is always the plan," I inform him.

He snorts and pulls his shirt over his head. Beneath the fabric is that comforting stretch of smooth skin just begging to be touched. "Funny, I was going to say the same about you."

"Good. I am glad that we are on the same chapter," I say.

"Page," he tells me. "On the same _page_."

"Whatever," I say, and lick a stripe across his chest.

"I think this is gonna be my best birthday ever," he tells me. 

I cannot help but agree.

* * * * *

Briana's parents are gone for the weekend visiting her older brother in Boulder. He attends the University of Colorado. In the fall, she will be moving to Illinois to study at a private university there. Her father's liquor cabinet is well-stocked, and she insists that I try some of the Cuervo. The taste of it burns my throat.

"You want another shot?" she asks. She is wearing a tantalizingly short dress, and her legs are very tan. 

"No," I tell her. "But I would like to take your clothes off."

She giggles and twists a finger into her hair, her cheeks gone red. "Only if I can take _yours_ off first," she says. Her eyelashes flutter in a highly appealing manner.

"Alright," I agree, smiling, and lead her to the couch.

Her mouth tastes bitter from the drink, but I don't mind. Inside, she is tight and slick, and those tanned legs are smooth around my back. She gasps, "Ben, oh _Ben_!" as this is what I told her my name was. 

Afterwards, she kisses my nose and tells me, "You are _so_ much better at this than my boyfriend."

"You are not better at it than mine," I answer. I cannot link _uemeur_ with someone who does not know my name.

She giggles and reaches for her underwear. "You're funny."

"You have nice legs," I tell her, which earns me another giggle. "And I think--"

In the back pocket of my pants, my cellphone rings. I climb down to search for it in the pile of clothing beside us. Briana tells me not to answer, but I inform her that this is not an option, as the call is from my boss. 

"Really? Cool," she says.

We dress as I speak with Jamie, who requires my immediate presence. Our client's credit card has been used again at a store in lower Manhattan.

"I'll give you a call the next time my parents are out," she tells me as I tug on my boots.

"I look forward to it," I tell her.


	4. Chapter 4

* * FOUR * *

The tank at the doctor's office holds a fish resembling a shark with an orange tail. I wonder, should it mature to full size, if it would be edible. Is it customary to cultivate foodstuffs in medical establishments? Does this creature possess curative properties?

Rictor is flipping through a magazine with the address label torn off the cover. He does not seem in the mood to answer questions about culinary practices, so I do not ask.

"I'm sorry," I tell him again.

"Stop saying that," he answers.

We wait in silence after this, except for when Rictor tells me that doing push-ups in a doctor's office is not appropriate behavior. I resign myself to exercising later and sit down beside him. He pats my thigh to reassure me once more that he is not angry, just unwell. His bracelet glimmers on his wrist.

It makes me feel both better and worse. I don't know why.

When the doctor enters, Rictor stands, and I follow his lead. She has graying blonde hair and is dressed in blue. A medical implement hangs over her shoulders.

"Mr. Rictor, we meet again. How's your girlfriend doing? Due any day now, isn't she?" Holding the door open, she ushers us into a back hallway which is lined by doors and questionably defensible. I am glad that I have brought my swords.

"Rahne's not my girlfriend," Rictor mutters.

"I see," the doctor tells him. She motions toward me. "And this is…?"

"I am Shatterstar," I say, and offer her a smile.

She gives me an appraising look. "Well, this makes much more sense. Alright, just through here. Have a seat on the bed, and tell me what seems to be the problem."

The bed in the examination room is vinyl and covered in a thin sheet of paper. I am unsure as to whom she intends it for, so when Rictor hoists himself onto it, I sit beside him. "Don't you have that in the paperwork I filled out?" Rictor asks, biting at his bottom lip.

"Oh, I always like to hear it straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak," she tells him.

I want to ask if she raises horses as well as fish, but Rictor looks pained and desperately unhappy, and I don't wish to annoy him with my questions. I have caused him enough distress already. I take his hand in mine. He sighs and leans his head against my shoulder.

"I don't speak mime, Mr. Rictor," the doctor says as she washes her hands. "You're going to have to use actual words."

He seems displeased with this. " _Poresd'ren_?" I ask. 

He shrugs and regards the ceiling.

"I feel completely healthy," I tell her, "but I am not entirely human and have never been ill. It is possible that I lack the capacity. However, Rictor has some concerns."

She nods, taking up a clipboard and pen. "And those would be?"

"He is fatigued and has pain in his abdominal region as well as a slightly elevated temperature," I tell her. "He also experiences a burning sensation when urinating."

"I see," she says. "And this began?"

"Several days ago," I tell her. 

"Maybe a week," Rictor corrects. To my shocked expression, he adds, "Didn't seem like that big of a deal. I assumed it would go away."

"Well, you know what they say about assuming. Alright, open your mouth and say 'aah'," the doctor tells him, and proceeds to press various archaic-looking medical implements to his body. She says nothing when she raises his jacket and reveals his gun. She asks, "Do you have any idea what could be causing the symptoms?" When I begin to answer, she tells me, "Let's let Mr. Rictor respond, shall we?"

He swallows. His hand in mine is clammy with sweat. "We're not… always careful. And I'm thinking maybe… I mean, it's possible to have something but not show signs of it, right? And especially since he's not human, maybe he could've… passed me something."

"We have an open relationship," I add for clarity's sake.

"Is that so," she says, looking displeased.

"I feel like total shit," Rictor tells her, as though this is not obvious. "Can we please skip this part?"

"What part?" I ask, concerned.

The doctor eyes me with an expression with which I am unfamiliar and holds out two clear plastic containers. "Alright, I'll save the lecture until after we find out for sure how stupid the pair of you have been. Take these into the bathroom across the hall and fill them to the line, both of you. When you're finished, I'll send them back for testing. Should be quick."

"Fill them with what?" I ask.

Rictor sighs again and slides his feet to the floor. "She wants us to pee in them. Come on, I'll show you how to do it."

After the unique experience of urinating into a cup, Rictor and I sit on the bed, awaiting the doctor's return. His face is flushed, and I hope that his fever has not worsened. I tuck his hair behind his ear and kiss his cheek. He offers a weak smile and brings his lips to mine.

A knock on the door precedes the doctor's reentrance, and Rictor settles back onto the bed. She holds two white paper bags in her hand. She hands one to Rictor, and one to me.

"What's this?" Rictor asks, holding up a brownish plastic container.

"Amoxicillin," she tells him. "You've got a kidney infection. Take it three times a day. If you don't feel better by Friday, give me a call, and I'll get you something stronger."

"That's it?" he asks, incredulous. "A _kidney_ infection?"

"Would you like it to be something worse?" she asks.

My body is so overwhelmed with relief that warmth seeps into my _uemeur_ itself: I have not harmed Rictor. He suffers from a routine human ailment and will be well soon. I am not at fault.

I open my bag. Inside is a package of condoms.

"I'm going to have the nurse draw blood and test both of you before you leave just to cover all our bases. If you're not monogamous, you should get tested every couple of months. This is serious shit, Mr. Rictor. You're playing with your _life_ here. Maybe you've never met someone dying of AIDS, but--"

"I know, I know," he tells her. "I swear it won't happen again. We'll be careful all the way, right, Star?"

"Do these really taste like bananas?" I ask.

* * * * *

Rictor has fallen asleep in his chair. His laptop, tilted at an angle across his knees, threatens to tumble to the floor. I gently remove it, place it on the desk, and go back to polishing my swords.

"Damn, he's really out, isn't he?" says Guido after waving a hand in front of Rictor's face.

"Rest is an essential part of the healing process," I tell him. "There is no shame in it."

"Only shame is how I don't have a marker on me," he responds. "But then I guess it's not fair if the guy's sick."

This makes no sense to me. "What sort of 'marker'? A tracking device?" I ask. Rictor's fever has broken, but his whereabouts do not seem terribly difficult to monitor in his current state.

He shakes his head. "Nah, one of them black permanent markers. When somebody passes out drunk, you're supposed to, you know…" His hand mimics writing in the air.

I take one last swipe with the polishing cloth across the steel and hold my blade to the light. It shines deadly white. "I sometimes wonder how many men I have killed with his sword," I muse.

Guido raises his hands in surrender. "Alright, no joking with the guy holding the pig sticker. Got it. Hope your, uh, boyfriend feels better."

I nod, glad that we have understood each other. Guido smiles and shakes his head for a reason I fail to recognize.

When he has gone, I covertly dispose of the black markers.

Rictor makes a noise in his sleep. His head is cocked at an uncomfortable angle. He will awake with a stiff neck if allowed to remain in such a position. I sheathe my sword.

"Whaya doin?" he mumbles when I lift him. 

"Taking you to bed," I tell him, cradling his head against my shoulder. "You will sleep better there."

"I can walk," he says.

"And I can cleave a man's skull in two while hopping on one foot and belting show tunes," I reply, "but I see no need for this ridiculousness either."

"I hope you know how disturbing that sounds," he mutters, but does not struggle to free himself. His fingers twine around the edge of my jacket.

"If you say so, Rictor," I tell him, pleased.

We meet Longshot on the way up the stairs, an event which Rictor dubs "embarrassing," but I ignore this. I still lack comprehension of this concept, as, I am quite sure, does Longshot.

Entering our room, I close the door behind us and place Rictor on our bed. He sighs when I take off his boots. "Don't know why you're taking care of me after I accused you of… you know," he mutters. "That was a shit thing for me to do. I'm a horrible person."

"You were well within your rights," I tell him. "My desire for new experiences led to rashness, and I might very well have been the cause of your pain. Also, Guido does inappropriate things with writing implements."

He frowns as I spread a blanket over him. "Guido does…? Never mind, I don't wanna know. I mean, it's just… you'd think I'd've learned my lesson about condoms after Rahne," he says, "but _noooo_. Julio Esteban Richter is _just_ that stupid."

"You are most certainly not stupid. It's not as though you needed to fear impregnating _me_ ," I point out.

He snorts. This concept amuses him for a reason I cannot discern. 

"Do not seek to find fault with yourself, Rictor. _I_ am to blame for any suffering you have endured," I assure him. "Foolishly jeopardizing your health was as wrong of me as letting my guard down in battle and risking the injury of a comrade, and for this I am sorry. The fragile nature of the human body still slips my brains from time to time."

" _Mind_ ," he yawns. "It slips your-- you're not seriously going to sit there and watch me, are you? I can't sleep being stared at."

I smile and lean across the bed, taking his hand in mine. "Close your eyes," I whisper.

Rictor sighs. I admire the curve of his jaw, the profile of his nose, the spread of his eyelashes against his cheek. His lips part slightly, and if he were well, I would not resist kissing them. He hasn't shaved in days, and stubble grows thick and dark across his cheeks and down his neck. It looks very masculine. I like that.

He is asleep in two minutes flat. 

I stare at him for hours.

* * * * *

Layla and I have gone to Toronto so that she might purchase new lingerie. She invited Rictor as well, but he is too on edge about the call he will be making this evening. He phones his step-mother every Friday, in addition to sending her money on a monthly basis, but tonight will be different.

"Just make sure you're back in time, okay?" he urged me. "In case it all goes wrong."

I assured him that I would. My mistake was in not realizing the intricacies of bra fittings. After three hours, Layla has yet to have found a single bra to her liking.

"See, this one cuts across the top even worse than the _last_ one," she says, pulling at the cups so that her breasts bounce temptingly behind the black lace. 

"It looks fine to me," I inform her.

"No, no, it'll show under my shirt," she sighs, sliding back into the fitting room and latching the door. "I should've tried that green one. Could you get it for me? 36C, over by the register."

I retrieve the specified garment and hold it over the top of the stall, hoping that she will ask me to adjust the straps again. 

"Ew," she says. "No, that one's ugly. I was right the first time. Put it back."

Layla opts to try a different store. It is a pleasant evening, and on our way across town, we pass many people: teenagers, aged couples, and young mothers pushing baby-holding carts. Layla laughs, spreads her arms wide, and twirls in a circle. She winds an arm around mine, grinning. I imagine I can feel the warmth of her skin through the leather of my jacket.

"What a pretty night, huh?" she asks.

"I would very much like to have sex with you right now," I tell her.

She laughs and pats my forearm. "No you wouldn't. And besides, look! A 24-hour nail boutique! Didn't I tell you I'd never had my nails done before? Oh, I'm going to get Jamie's face on them! Well, his face on _one_ , and his dupes' on the others. People will have to guess which is which! Won't it be _great_?"

I shake my head. "But we need to get back to New York before--"

"I'll give you a call when you're finished," she tells me, slipping away toward the storefront. "Don't worry, your timing will be _perfect_."

Before I can protest the illogic of this statement, she has disappeared behind a sign advertising neon nail lacquer, and I am left standing on the sidewalk alone. I regret my need for an anchor to teleport. Spotting a coffee shop across the street, I resolve to wait for Layla there, closely monitoring the door. She clearly suffers from mental instability. Perhaps this is due to the feminine hormone, the one which Guido calls "PMS."

I hope that Rictor has not yet made his call. That thing inside me-- that emotion with the broken neck and dead-eyed stare-- tells me he has great need of me. It hisses dry words with a parched tongue. Its snake-like tones make my skin crawl. Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I kick it in the face and go inside.

As I enter the coffee shop, a woman in a red dress steps out. I hold the door for her. She holds coffee in one hand and a cellphone in the other. She has dark hair and blue eyes and a voice that makes me wish she were trying on lingerie. 

As she walks away, her stilettos clicking against the pavement, the sway of her backside makes a decidedly pleasant _something_ roil in excitement in the pit of my stomach. " _Je t'ai déjà dit_ ," she is saying. " _Je ne veux pas que_ \--"

" _Pardon!_ " I call out.

She is turning toward me when her heel catches on a crack in the sidewalk, and she tumbles to the ground. I stride forward to catch her.

Catching turns out to be unnecessary. She hovers horizontally several inches from the sidewalk, coffee spilled across the pavement but phone still clenched in her hand.

" _Merde_ ," she swears, tossing the cup to the ground in a spray of frothy liquid. "I _hate_ these shoes."

I offer my hand and help her to her feet, though I doubt that any help is required. "Would you like me to buy you another?" I ask.

She looks at me for a moment, then blinks and tilts her head. Her hair tumbles over an elegant shoulder. "I recognize you. Aren't you one of those X-people?" she asks.

"X-Factor," I tell her, and present her with a business card. Jamie likes it when I do this. It's good for business. Perhaps someday I will ask him to start paying me.

The cellphone, still open in the woman's hand, emits high-pitched squeaks. She puts it to her ear and says, " _Je te rappelle plus tard, Marc_ ," in an impatient tone and slides it shut.

"Aurora," she says, and offers her hand.

" _Enchanté de faire votre connaissance. Je m'appelle Shatterstar_ ," I tell her, and kiss her.

Aurora, I come to learn shortly, is the twin sister of Northstar and a former member of Alpha Flight. She possesses the abilities of super speed and flight and seems very like her brother, though with larger breasts and less athletic thighs. She is also quite experienced in sexual matters, and engages in maneuvers previously unknown to me. 

I take enthusiastic note of each so that I might later recreate them.

"So… tell me," she pants, with one ankle hooked around the back of my neck, "are you new to this?" 

"How did you--" Her fingers slide to a place in which I've never had a woman show interest before, and my eyes widen. A jolt of pleasure courses through me as they find their mark. 

She laughs, breathless. "Call it woman's intuition. So how did you get so… fucking _good_?"

"I have a-- _fekt!_ " I gasp. Her movements make it nearly impossible to think, much less speak. I cannot remember what I was planning to say.

She laughs and brings her legs to my waist, flipping me onto my back with ease and opening the stand beside her bed. Holding up an object, she asks me, "Do you know what this is?"

"I know what it _looks_ like," I tell her. "But why is it purple?"

She laughs again, throwing back her head. If only I could reach her breasts with my mouth. She tells me, "Let me show you what happens when you push the button on the bottom…"

Half an hour later, I stare at the ceiling, my entire body still vibrating but spent. 

Aurora runs a lazy finger down my chest. "How was _that_ for Canadian hospitality, hmm?"

I clear my throat and manage, "Such a pity Alpha Flight was disbanded."

She laughs and pats my shoulder, getting up off the bed to pull her undergarments back on. They are black and sheer, and if I were in any other state, I would endeavor to remove them. "By the way, piercings usually aren't my style, but that one in your tongue is _incroyable_."

"Thank you," I tell her; Rictor is ambivalent towards it. "Battery-operated synthetic pseudo-penises are not usually my style either, but yours is _incroyable_ as well."

She laughs yet again, and my cellphone rings. I fumble for it, my hands unsteady.

"You can come and pick me up now," says Layla. "My nails look _amazing_!"

"Ah, good," I tell her, though an uncomfortable tightness in my chest tells me that I have let Rictor down. I should have thought to send him a text message; surely he made his call hours ago.

* * * * *

Rictor sits on the roof with a beer and an _AKC Dog Breed Guidebook_. It is late. If he were not beneath a light, it would be too dark to read.

"Hey, Rictor," Layla says as the portal closes behind us. "Check out my nails!"

"Those are, um… great, Layla," he tells her. I do not believe he means it.

She laughs. "Sorry we took so long. I kept telling the nail technicians all the dupes had to look the same, but none of them spoke English. And even with your boyfriend helping out, I never did find a bra!"

"Goodnight, Layla," Rictor tells her.

She throws me a grin and heads down the stairs to garner admiration from others on the state of her fingernails. The door swings shut behind her.

"Rictor," I begin, "I am truly sorry that--"

"Look, don't worry about it," he says, and pats the ledge beside him. He finishes the beer and sets it at his feet beside two others, already empty. "I had a nice long talk with _mi madre_."

I sit next to him and eye the book. "About shih tzus?"

He snorts. "No, this is for the case-- you know how much these things sell for? I'm shocked Monet doesn't have a half dozen of them. Anyway, I told her about, you know…"

I nod, as he informed me of his plan. Rictor loves his family very much. He said he felt he was hiding his true self from them, and this was unacceptable. Though he dislikes addressing such matters directly, he decided it was time to come out of the cupboard. 

I have never understood the need to lock oneself in enclosed kitchen spaces, however proverbial they may be. Why would Rictor pretend to be something he is not? His entire being is so very near perfection. "And she was not angered when you told her?" I ask, as this seems to be what he feared. It is another concept I cannot grasp.

He shakes his head and looks down at the glossy canine photographs. I can't help but be reminded of Rahne. "It was the weirdest thing. I was still warming up to saying it-- I mean, I wanted to explain things a little, first-- and she told me to stop. I was _freaking out_. But she just said in this real calm voice, 'Julio, _mi niño_ , I've known since you were twelve years old.' I was _floored_. I mean, _I_ didn't even know until…"

"Mexico?" I offer. I recall cool nights and warm bodies in hard beds. The feel of Rictor's lips against my skin.

"Nah, I was still in denial," he says. "I thought if I tried hard enough, I could make it work out with girls. Be, you know, _normal_."

" _Normal_ seems like an overly drastic change," I tell him.

He rolls his eyes and closes the dog book, glancing offhandedly at the cover. He slips it in his pocket. His lips find my cheek. "Damn, you smell like a red-light district. Where _were_ you?"

"Waiting for Layla," I tell him.

"Uh-huh," he says. "Right. Anyway, _mi madre_ 's alright with everything, and apparently my cousin Anita has a crush on you. You remember her, right?"

"Is she the particularly attractive one?" I ask. "With the braids?"

He stares at me. "Star, she's _fourteen_."

"Is she?" I ask, wondering what his point is. His cousin looks very much like him. In a decade or so, she will be an exceptionally appealing woman.

He sighs and rolls his eyes. Giving my shoulder a squeeze, he stands. "And on that note, I'm heading in. I'm tired as hell. Shower before you come to bed," he tells me. "You stink."

By the time I have eaten a sandwich, discussed _Rocky_ with Guido and Longshot, and showered, Rictor is asleep in our bed. I slide in beside him, trying not to wake him, but it is difficult. He is sprawled in the center of the mattress, arm wrapped around a pillow and sheets pooled at his waist.

"Mmm," he says, and draws me toward him. 

"Go back to sleep," I tell him, planting a kiss on his forehead.

"Don' wanna," he murmurs, and slides a thigh over mine. "C'mere."

His skin is warm and soft and everything that is welcoming to me. His lips suck at the base of my neck, and his hands glide up my back. He is hard against my hip.

"Could we not simply…" I search my English for the word, never having used it before, "cuddle?"

Silence fills the room.

" _What?_ " he says.

I ease his leg down from atop mine. "I'm exhausted," I tell him. "I teleported twice, which always drains me, and it was a very long day. I had no idea that shopping for undergarments was such an involved feminine ritual."

"And the sex you had?" he asks. "Was that 'involved' too?"

"Actually, yes," I answer. "She taught me a number of--"

Rictor rolls over, turning his back to me. "I don't want to hear about you screwing around with Layla," he says.

"I would not have sex with Layla," I tell him. I do not add that this is because she turned me down. "I met a very knowledgeable woman named--"

"Look, I don't _care_ ," he snaps.

"Then why did you ask?" I say.

He heaves a sigh and yanks the bed coverings over himself. "Star, I'm trying my best to be understanding, but I hope you know this is _bullshit_."

I did not know this was bullshit. 

I think about it for a time and find that I agree. 

The one who calls me his, who wears the gift I bought him and gasps encouragements in the Cadre tongue, is beside me yet unable to be touched. I am unclothed in bed with him, wishing to join our _uemeur_ and hear him call me his _corazon_ , but I cannot. My stomach churns, and that dead feeling stares at me with maggots crawling from its eye sockets. I shiver and look away. 

"I'm cold," I tell him.

"Not my problem," he says, tugging the sheets tighter around his body. "Go sleep with someone else. Seems like you're pretty good at that."

I want to protest that I have never technically _slept_ with anyone else. We have sex and then part ways. Sleeping in such close proximity to another would involve a level of intimacy which I have achieved with no one but Rictor. 

But I do not. He is angry with me. He has needs which I am unable to fulfill. I have failed him. I deserve my punishment.

I pull on a pair of pants and lie awake downstairs on the couch.

* * * * *

Rahne sits at the front desk with a plate of pasta salad balanced on the swell of her stomach. She is growing larger day by day. Just beneath her skin, a new life is forming, readying itself to enter the world as have so many millions before. Rictor says he will take care of it.

"I swear, Rahne, you don't have to worry about a thing," he tells her. "I know babies need a lot of stuff, but I'll get that for you. I'm a very prepared fake dad. See, I even made a list… stroller, pampers, onesies, pacifiers, a mobile for over the crib-- I found this one on Amazon with little fish that light up and--"

"Ric, I really appreciate it," she says around a bite, "but you don't have to do this. I can deal with it myself."

"Hey, come on, what are friends for?" he asks. 

She sighs and places her now empty dish on the desk beside her. "I just don't want you feeling… obligated. I could say I'm sorry for lying to you a million times, and it wouldn't be enough. I was just…"

"I don't care about that," he says. He takes her hand in his and looks her in the eye. "I'm here for you, come Hell, high water, or… I don't know, the Four Horsemen of Apocalypse. I've got it covered, okay?"

She smiles and wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into an embrace made awkward by her protruding abdomen. "Thanks, Ric. No matter how awful I'm feeling these days, you always manage to cheer me up."

"Same here," he says, and kisses her cheek.

Having seen enough, I venture down from my vantage point, descend the fire escape, and climb into the hallway. This conversation has not pleased me. I am relegated to the couch while Rahne and Rictor bond over selecting infant accessories, none of which are familiar to me. What is a "1Z", and what would one accomplish with such an item? For what function would a "mobile" be purchased, and how would a glowing fish tank be suspended over a crib?

"Is something up?" Monet asks, catching sight of me as I make my way to the gym. "I saw you come in through the window."

"Everything is fine," I inform her. "I was spying on Rahne and Rictor."

"Oh," she says. "Carry on, then."

Perhaps the fact that I myself was created and not born has hardened me. Perhaps I am overly fatigued from attempting to sleep in a room with a television remote at hand and Netflix at my fingertips. Or perhaps I regret advising Rictor to retrieve Rahne after she revealed to him that he was not the father of her baby.

These things I do not know. Be that as it may, I know one thing: I am not happy.


	5. Chapter 5

* * FIVE * *

Sam and the first half of his team arrive on X-Factor's roof at 7:00 PM sharp. Jamie may begrudge them their methods, but he will have no complaints regarding their punctuality. I respect their ideals and greet them readily.

"Hey, Shatty," says Tabitha. 

"Hello," I tell her, and pull her into a kiss. 

"Um," says Sam. "You know me and Tab are back together, right, Star?"

"I did not, but I'm happy for you," I tell him. He has put on muscle since last I saw him, and the fabric of his pants pulls enticingly across his hips. I hold out my hand to greet him.

"Mmph!" he says when I press my lips to his.

"Whoa," says a voice behind me. "Can _I_ get in on some of this action?" We have never met, and he is young but clearly not untried in combat. His skin is a particularly appealing shade of green. 

"I am Shatterstar," I declare, and offer my hand.

"Anole," he says, and shakes.

My lips meet his, and I find his inexperienced touch pleasant but not arousing. I wonder if, when I first kissed Rictor, I seemed equally unknowing. 

I truly hope not.

When I pull away, his cheeks have flushed a deeper green, like leaves in the rain. "This is insane. You are _so_ hot," he says.

"So is this the standard Shatterstar greeting now?" Roberto asks with a grin. "Kisses for everyone you meet?"

I smile and shake my head. "Only the attractive people. Though it is good to see you again as well, Roberto."

Tabitha snorts.

"Oh, _snap_ ," says Anole.

"Oh my god, I just got kissed by a man," says Sam.

"Are we going inside or what?" Rictor asks. "The next group's not due for another hour, right?" He has been overseeing the proceedings and sounds unhappy. For the past few days, we have spoken little, and I awoke this morning to find my cellphone deactivated and the entirety of my contacts deleted. I move to kiss him as well.

He turns away from me. "Not now," he murmurs. Opening the door, he motions for our guests to descend. "Ladies first," he says to Tabitha. She rolls her eyes but enters nonetheless. He follows after them.

I feel… slighted? Is this the word? Is "slight" an emotion?

"So I thought Northstar was the only other gay mutant," Anole tells me when we've made our way down. 

"Percentage-wise, that's not really probable," Roberto says. "Also, Shatterstar? You've got really bad taste, man."

"Technically, Star's not a mutant," Rictor interjects, looking annoyed. "He's an artificially-created humanoid being from another dimension."

"Give me a break. Mutant or not, Shatterstar's definitely not gay," Tabitha says, patting Sam's back for a reason I am unable to discern. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I am definitely not gay," I agree.

"Because straight guys always make out with other guys. Makes total sense," Anole mutters.

By now, we have entered the kitchen, and Rictor is on the tips of his toes searching through a cabinet. Tabitha sits at the table poking through a bag of peanut M&Ms with Roberto. Certain colors seem preferable. Sam has excused himself to speak with Jamie, mumbling something about mouthwash.

Layla enters the kitchen. "You're Sunspot, right?" she says to my former teammate. She offers her hand. "Layla Miller. _Love_ what you've done with your hair. Could we talk for a minute in the hall?"

"We… can't talk here?" he asks. I note that he is admiring her breasts. I take a moment to admire them as well. Her new bra from Victoria's Secret fits superbly. She ordered it through their catalog.

"If you wanted everyone to hear, I'd just ask you now," she says. "But it's… sort of a personal thing. If you catch my meaning."

He shrugs, grabs a handful of candy, and follows her out.

Breasts aside, I question the wisdom of this action: PMS is a serious medical condition.

"Where's the popcorn?" Rictor asks, rifling through packets of ramen noodles, cheese puffs, and potato chips.

"Didn't Guido eat it all during the game?" I ask. I step up behind him to assist with my greater height, placing a hand on his back. I see no popcorn.

"Okay, not to be rude, but if you're not gay, my gaydar is definitely broken," Anole says. "And if my gaydar's broken, my life is _over_." He stands beside the entryway, and looking over my shoulder, I see that his arms are crossed in a very grave manner.

"What is gaydar?" I ask.

Rictor ducks under my arm and tells him, "It's complicated. He wasn't raised with the sort of ingrained ideas about sex that we were." To me, he says, "Don't worry about gaydar-- you don't have any."

Tabitha snorts. She rocks her chair back on two legs, her feet against the edge of the table. "Let's get this straight," she says to Anole. "And I do mean _straight_ , because I know from _personal experience_ what Shatterstar's into. Isn't that right, Shatty?"

"Could we maybe not talk about this?" Rictor asks before I can answer. He extracts a beer from the refrigerator.

"What, jealous because when _you_ asked me out, I turned you down flat?" Tabitha shoots back. "It's not _my_ fault you're pathetic."

Rictor slams the refrigerator door. A magnet falls to the floor. "I _get_ it, Tab. You don't like me. _Fine_. But you don't have to disrespect your boyfriend and shove your sex life in other people's faces. They're not as interested as you think."

"Don't make me laugh," she tells him. "Hearing about _my_ sex life is the closest someone like _you_ could ever come to having one."

"This is untrue," I point out. "Rictor--"

"I don't need your help," he cuts me off. 

I frown. "I was only going to tell her that--"

"Well, keep it to yourself," he says. "If I feel like talking about my private life, I'll talk about it myself."

"Oh, play nice, Ric," Tabitha tells him. "Don't alienate the only person who puts up with your crap. Even if he is an alien. Here, Shatty, sit down and have some--"

"And when will that be?" I ask Rictor, ignoring her. "When will you feel like talking about your personal life? I would sincerely like to know, as I no longer seem to be part of it." Emotion has sprung up in my chest like a warrior into the arena, blades flashing. It tears at my insides as his swords rend flesh.

"We are not having this conversation right now," Rictor insists. "This is not the time or place, and if you keep this up, you're going to start pissing me off."

"If there is anyone here who should be pissed off," I respond, heart aching as though pierced, "it is I. We are supposed to be friends-- _best_ friends-- yet you barely speak to me anymore. Instead, you spend all your time with Rahne, _fantasizing_ about being her baby's father!"

Rictor stares at me, mouth open.

Tabitha chokes on an M&M. "Rahne's _pregnant_?"

Rictor sighs. He sees the magnet by his toe and picks it up, flips it over in his fingers, and sticks it back on the refrigerator. He sets the beer on the countertop. "You think I have all the answers, but I _don't_ , alright?" he tells me. "Half the time, I can't even handle my own life-- my own _feelings_ \-- much less figure yours out for you."

I press my hand to my chest. The wound stings. "But I only ask that--"

He shakes his head. "What you did-- what you _keep_ doing-- it's really bad, Star. And I know you don't get _why_ , but I just… I'm not ready to talk about it yet."

"Julio, I promise on my honor as a warrior-- on Za's Vid itself-- that from now on, I shall be prepared to pleasure you whenever it is required of me," I swear. "I shall never let you down again."

He sighs. "That is _completely_ not what it's about, Star. I appreciate the sentiment, but you just don't _get_ it."

"Um," says Anole, "what language is that?"

I did not notice that we switched to Cadre; the steel of emotion cut my insides too sharply. Does Rictor not want them to hear our words? What does this mean? 

"Wait, wait. Back up here," says Tabitha. " _Rahne_ is pregnant? _Our_ Rahne? Rahne _Sinclair_?"

"Do you know any other Rahnes?" Rictor asks.

"Where is she?" Tabitha demands, getting up out of her seat and heading toward the door. "Is she here?"

"Wait, Tab," Rictor protests, following after her, "come back, Jamie said you can't…"

Their voices fade, but that ache does not leave my heart. I am left in the kitchen, alone with this indescribable pain… and Anole. I watch him slide into Tabitha's vacated chair. He chews on his bottom lip. His fingers tap the tabletop. He examines the bag of M&Ms. He sighs and puts one in his mouth. He chews it very deliberately.

"Well this is, um. Awkward," he says.

I look at him-- so young and innocent, not torn apart by emotion, body unmarred by combat, expression not hardened by loss, and lips which are really bad at kissing-- and hate him just a little.

I do not understand this.

I put Rictor's beer back in the refrigerator.

* * * * *

I awake to the light of a full moon in my eyes and Rictor perched on the armrest by my feet. It is my sixth night on the couch. It feels like months. "Hey," he says.

I blink and wipe the sleep from my eyes. "Is everything alright?" I ask him. The glow of the digital clock on the DVD player tells me that it is 2:36 AM.

"Yeah, fine," he answers, fussing with a hole in the cuff of his sweatshirt. "I just…" He sighs. "I miss you."

"I miss you as well," I tell him. "Not having my best friend beside me is akin to losing a limb in battle. In fact, it is worse, as one can always have a cybernetic limb fashioned. They are quite functional."

He nods, continuing to find his sleeve engrossing. "This whole open relationship thing," he says, "I can deal with it. I don't like it, but it's what you need right now, and I know you care about me, so I'll handle it. I've _been_ handling it. But the other stuff…"

"What other stuff?" I ask. 

He sighs. "You just… it's not your fault you don't understand. It's stupid for me to get angry over you being yourself. You just need time to figure things out. Let's not talk about it," he says. "It's fine."

I frown. "But if we don't talk about it--"

"I got a better idea," he tells me. "Take your clothes off." 

This, I can do. 

"No," he corrects, shifting against the arm rest. "Do it slow. I want to watch."

I have never performed in such a way before. Fighting in the arena has prepared me for a great many things, but not for this: not for Rictor's hungry eyes on my body, for the slow draw of the fabric across my skin, for the hyper-awareness of my own being. I am both not myself and more myself than I have ever been. My heart beats hard in my chest. Adrenaline flows.

I anticipate top ratings. 

"Now lay down on the couch," Rictor murmurs.

Settling back against the cushions, I reach out my hand toward his. Every part of me yearns to be one with him.

He leans forward, clasps my hand in his-- warm and callused-- and then releases it. "Turn over," he tells me.

My throat is tight, my mouth dry. I press my face to the couch cushion, and my world smells of foam, spilled popcorn, and anticipation. Blood pounds through my veins. The night air is cold against my back.

Rictor's lips touch my neck, hot and soft. I gasp and push my hips down into the cushions. The coarse fabric chafes my naked skin. Rictor presses kisses down my spine, body above mine but not touching me. The heat emanating from his skin makes the breath catch in my throat.

"Please," I gasp. " _Por favor tócame_ …"

He does not answer. His mouth is occupied at the small of my back. I swallow and part my thighs, holding back a moan as his tongue swipes over my tailbone. The click of his belt buckle resounds through the room.

A feminine voice declares, "Omigod, I am _sooooo_ drunk! What's your name again?"

"Guido," says the man.

The woman giggles. "Not you. _You_."

"I am Longshot," he answers. "And this is our headquarters. Would you like a tour of my bed?"

Rictor swears as a light in the hall flicks on. He swears again as their footsteps draw nearer. His weight removes itself from the couch. "We'll talk in the morning," he says, and kisses my shoulder. "I promise."

"But I--"

It is no use; he has already gone.

I want to follow him up to our bedroom, but will I find the door locked? I don't know, but this would upset me. I might become angry, and someone could end up getting hurt. 

It would likely be me.

I am too aroused to think properly. I pull on my clothing and venture into the kitchen. Guido sits at the table.

"Well that was anticlimo-- antaclima--" he frowns and scratches his head. " _Shitty_."

"Completely," I agree, glad that I have come to speak with him. After a mere ten seconds in his presence, I find continued arousal impossible. "Would you like to watch _A Few Good Men_ with me? It's a military drama."

He sighs and stands. "Yeah, Jack Nicholson, right? Lead the way."

* * * * *

Rictor and I sit on a mat in the gym. He wears his holey sweatshirt and drinks a cup of coffee. It appears significantly less sludge-like than before, and I am pleased. "Sorry about last night," he says. "I was sort of… I was in a weird mood."

"So it would seem. I'm glad you feel better," I tell him, hoping this to be true.

He nods. "Yeah. Thanks."

I smile.

He clears his throat. "So… I, um. I have a question for you. I mean, I have a _lot_ of questions, since you've been sort of putting me through hell lately, but--"

"Hell?" I ask, confused. "I don't recall ever visiting this locale with you. You were taking Rahne to the doctor when we went to rescue Pip and met Hela in--"

"It's an expression," he says. "It means you've been giving me a hard time."

"Really? I rather liked hell," I muse. "Fighting Hrimhari was particularly--"

"Look, could we focus here just for a minute?" he asks. "And then we can talk about battle strategy and swordsmanship all you want. You know love to hear about it."

Coming to a sudden realization I ask, "Is this why you disconnected my cellphone?" 

His face turns red. "Yeah, I… sorry about that. It was really immature. I was a little drunk, and… it seemed like a good idea at the time. All those _names_ you had were just… But Jamie's gonna call and reconnect it for you today. So _anyway_ ," Rictor continues, "I was going to ask… look, you know why I had to tell _mi madre_ , right? Do you get that?"

I frown. "Because you are an exemplary human being who is proud of who and what he is and is not ashamed to talk openly about being gay?" I propose.

"I--" he sighs. "No. But that's really… it's cool that you think that. Star, I told her because of you."

I cannot fathom what he means by this.

"If I didn't _have_ somebody," he continues, "there'd be nothing to tell. I wouldn't've bothered. But I'm with _you_ , and I'm in this thing for the long run no matter how much you make me want to tear my hair out sometimes, and I wanted her to know. I wouldn't hide a girlfriend, and I wasn't going to hide you. So the whole… _coming out_ thing sort of had to happen. That's why I was so mad at you for ditching me to have sex with some… _whoever_ up in Toronto. I went out on a limb bigtime for you, and you gave me one hell of a thank you."

"I said I was very sorry about that. Layla was busy with her Jamie-nails, and I lost track of time," I tell him. "I know I should have texted. But I did learn a number of very intriguing things about carnal pleasure."

He looks at me. "I tell you I risked rejection from my own _family_ for you, and _that's_ how you answer? I mean, that's _seriously_ what you have to say to me about that. Seriously."

"Yes?" I offer.

He sighs and drinks more coffee. I feel that I have said the wrong thing. He does not look happy. We were conversing normally, and now he has closed up like a clamshell. I don't know what to say to make it better. I don't understand this concept of familial rejection. Do humans sever ties with their own offspring if they do not enjoy sexual relations with the opposite gender? Perhaps to a human, the answer would be obvious, but to me, such a thing seems cruel. 

I begin to suspect this entire conversation is beyond my current societal grasp.

"So," Rictor says at last, "do you remember that day you cornered me in the bathroom about… me being stupid? And afterwards, when we… _you know_ … about a dozen times?"

"Vividly," I tell him. "Would you like to do it again?" The mats might not be of the desired softness, but…

"Not right now," he says, with an utter lack of interest that disappoints me. "But you told me something that night. Something important. Do you remember it?"

I frown, attempting to discern what Rictor might deem "important."

Rictor sets down his coffee and pulls his knees to his chest. I recognize this as a protective posture but do not know why he has adopted it. "You told me… you said you… loved me." The last words come out as a murmur. He clears his throat and adds, louder, "You said… ' _te amo_ '."

"Did I?" I ask. I said a great many things that night in several different languages-- this is entirely possible. 

"And I just wanted to know," Rictor continues, looking at his feet, "if you _meant_ it. I get how, in bed, people can say things they don't mean. You know, you're in the moment, and sometimes you just… _say_ things. Words just come out. Did you say it in _that_ sort of way, or was there like… _emotion_ attached to it?"

"I care greatly for you, Rictor, but you know I don't understand emotions that well," I tell him. 

"Look, this is really important to me, okay? Could you please think about it?" he asks.

I try to. I try very hard. But the only emotion that comes to mind when I recall that night is the one I don't like to think of. Its corpse rots still within my soul, flesh cracking and peeling as though left in the hot Mexico sun to bake. Rictor nearly killed himself. I still cannot comprehend this.

I shake my head. "You are my emotional anchor," I tell him, kicking dirt over the body to mask the stench. "You know me better than anyone. Do _you_ think I love you?"

He regards me for a moment, sniffs, and scratches his neck. He picks up his coffee and takes another sip.

"No," he says. "I don't think you do."

I consider this and come to a reasonable conclusion: "If this is what you believe, I'm sure you're right. I apologize for saying such a perplexing thing and hope that I haven't offended you."

He stands rather abruptly. "No, it's cool. No problem. Just wanted to know."

"It _seems_ to be a problem," I say, following him toward the door. "You appear upset."

"I'm not upset," he answers. "I'm just-- I'm confused, okay? You said you came back here to be with me, and I _believed_ you, but you keep--"

"Sorry to interrupt," says Theresa from the doorway. "But there's a woman on the phone for you, Shatterstar. Foreign accent, didn't give her name."

"You're not interrupting," Rictor tells her. "I was just leaving. Talk to you later, Star."

Rahne is filing paperwork in the front office when I arrive at the telephone. She ignores me, and I return the favor. "Who is this?" I ask into the receiver.

The woman laughs. " _Alors, bonjour_ to you as well," she tells me.

I smile. "Hello. It's nice to hear from you."

"Well, it's nice to be heard from," Aurora says. "Guess where I am right now-- New York!"

I do not point out that as a detective agency, we have call tracing, and I knew this already.

"I'm here on business for my brother's company, so I'll be talking to terribly dull and unattractive people _all_ afternoon," she continues, "but I'm free this evening if you'd like to get together. We could have a bit of dinner, some _champagne_ … a few hours of intensely athletic sex…"

"Only a few?" I ask.

She laughs. "Is that a yes?"

Perhaps I should decline. If I stay here and spend time with Rictor tonight, he might stop being upset and confused. I could ask him to explain about familial rejection, and maybe _I_ would stop being confused. Perhaps he might even invite me to join him in bed again.

On the other hand, Aurora is only in New York for a short visit; Rictor will always be here. I can spend time with him later. What's more, it makes no logical sense to assume that Rictor will wish to converse with me further today, or to have sex with me when he has already refrained for a week. He is an unknown factor in the equation of my evening, a wild-card opponent in the arena. Aurora is not.

"It is indeed a yes," I tell her. 

And besides, it's not as though I love him. He told me so himself.

"Perfect! Meet me at the Waldorf Astoria at 8. I'm in room 214. Just give them your name at the front desk. And… make sure you wear those leather pants, alright?"

I hang up the telephone, smiling, and roll my shoulders in anticipation of the workout.

"Who was that?" Rahne asks.

"No one Rictor knows," I tell her, and head back to the gym.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to a Spanish-speaking friend, "pinche mamon" means something like "fucking egotistical bastard." Good thing the recipient of the insult doesn't know this! Also, as a side note, despite what he might say when in a pissy mood, Star would never, *ever* hurt Rahne.

* * SIX * *

I find Rictor's bracelet in the shower drain, entangled in strands of Monet's hair. I stand beneath the showerhead, wet stream hitting my chest and steam fogging the room, and stare at the silver crosses until the water goes cold. Hair still unwashed, I turn off the tap and reach for a towel. 

My reflection in the mirror is not complimentary. The Audience would be appalled. Luckily, Theresa keeps makeup in the medicine cabinet. Her skin is the same shade as mine, and I apply dabs around my unbranded eye to hide the dark circle. My eyes are dull, and even my hair, molded into place as I work product through it with my fingers, lacks its usual luminance.

Before leaving the bathroom, I scoop up the bracelet and slip it into my pocket. It feels so heavy.

My _uemeur_ feels heavy.

"If you can't handle the television, I'm going to have to take it away," Jamie told me some time ago. "And if I do, I'm afraid it might bring Guido to tears, and believe me, no one wants to see that."

I assured him that my behavior would improve. I would not continue to watch badly-cast sci-fi films and reruns of _Matlock_ until all hours of the night. I would take proper rest, not over-exercise, and eat my vegetables. I would not again offer to knock Rahne unconscious with the hilt of my sword and physically extract her baby no matter how much her very presence grates upon my last nerve. 

Also, I would purchase more black Sharpies.

"We have plenty of empty rooms, Shatterstar. There's no reason for you to be sleeping on the couch every night," Jamie told me. He pointed to a hamper beside the couch. Rictor does his own laundry now, so the garments were mine. "Why don't you grab your stuff, and we'll move you in across from Longshot?"

"I already have a room," I told him. "Please inform Rictor that he should let me move back into it."

But he has not done so, and I continue to spend nights on the couch, which is too short for my legs and makes my back stiff, despite my enhanced healing abilities. Although I now turn off the television at 1 AM and get three straight hours of sleep before my six-hour workout and breakfast of leftover pizza with extra olives, I feel no better. 

When I enter the kitchen today, Theresa is washing dishes. I open the refrigerator door, only to slam it in disgust.

I slide into a chair, clench my hands into fists, and glare at the tabletop. "Someone ate my _pizza_."

"I'm sorry, Star. I haven't seen anyone down here this morning… Would you like me to fix you an omelet?" she asks.

"No," I tell her. "Your cooking has disastrous effects upon my bowels."

Glasses clink, and the water stops running. A cabinet door closes. Theresa sits down beside me. "Want to talk about it?" she asks.

I consider pretending she is speaking of her lack of culinary skills, but I decide against insulting her further. This will achieve nothing. What I crave is battle-- the heat and passion of blade against blade, man against man, and the release it allows-- not having my eardrums blown out. Those take far too long to regrow, and blood pouring from my ears would ruin my jacket.

Perhaps I should have Longshot teleport me to the headquarters of the Fantastic Four so that I might pick another fight with the Thing.

"Can I ask why you and Ric are arguing?" Theresa asks.

"We are not arguing," I tell her. "To argue would require a form of interpersonal communication. I _wish_ that we were arguing. Instead, he ignores me. We can be sitting on the couch side by side, yet he seems a million miles away…"

I want to tell her more, but my throat closes up thinking about it. I don't understand this. Rictor even told me to _be quiet_ during the farcical conclusion of _Pretty Woman_. Rictor _never_ tells me to be quiet. ' _She rescues him right back_ ,' indeed! Sometimes, I don't know who he is anymore.

Most of the time, I don't know who _I_ am.

"And… how does it make you feel when he acts that way?" Theresa asks me.

"How do you _think_ it makes me feel, Theresa?" I say.

She is very silent for several moments.

"I meant that as an honest question," I assure her, as I suspect my words may have come out more sharply than I intended. "Because I truly don't know. Emotions are still a mystery to me, perhaps more so now than ever before. I have begun to learn, but my knowledge is so incomplete, it is sometimes worse than knowing nothing."

She sighs. "Star, I don't know how you'll feel about this after the whole Benjamin Russell… thing," she tells me. "But there's a psychologist the team talked to a while back who--"

"No psychologists," I tell her. Memories of my stay at the Weisman Institute still niggle at the dark places in my brain, and I have no desire to repeat the experience. Also, I hate niggling. The very word appalls me. 

It sounds like something Rahne's baby will do. 

Rictor brought home a highchair today. It is decorated with happy-looking fish. They smile and swish about with multicolored bubbles. The baby has not even been born, and already he is buying it things. He likes that baby more than he likes me, and it is not even _his_. I can only assume this is because it is Rahne's.

I find this unjust. Have _I_ ever lied to him, as Rahne has? Have _I_ ever left him? I would die before stooping to such dishonor! Yet I receive not even a smile from him, much less extravagant new home furnishings.

Where are _my_ happy fish?

"Okay, no psychologists. I understand," Theresa says. Her hand covers mine, and I find it strangely soothing. "It was just an idea. But if you need someone to talk to… I'm all ears."

I regard her hand, the slender fingers and well-manicured nails, and consider the softness of her skin against mine. It is nothing like Rictor's.

"What I would most like at this moment," I inform her, "is to fight a lengthy battle against a worthy opponent, spilling blood, sweat, and various other bodily fluids-- and perhaps appendages-- upon the battlefield. And then I would have sex with Rictor. A _lot_ of sex, for days without stopping and in various positions. First, I would have Rictor below me and his thighs clenched around my--"

"Okay, didn't need _quite_ that much information, Star," she informs me, patting my hand.

I frown and stare at something spilled on the tabletop. It looks like pizza sauce. The swordsman is there again, piercing my heart with his blade of emotion, and I have no parry to his blow. "When we do it that way, we can kiss," I mumble. I haven't kissed Rictor in weeks. I ache for him.

Theresa sighs. 

"Alright, suit up, people!" Jamie's voice proclaims from the doorway. "I need everyone on the roof in two minutes. Serious shit is going down."

"We're already dressed," I tell him.

"Are you a dupe?" Theresa asks.

"Two minutes!" Jamie declares. 

I send forth a silent prayer to Za that _serious shit_ involves detached appendages.

* * * * *

Apocalypse has come. Or perhaps it is _The_ Apocalypse. Or maybe just _an_ apocalypse-- it makes little difference to me so long as my mettle as a warrior will be tested. Arrayed around the table is likely the largest and most powerful group of superhumans the world has seen since M-Day. I catch sight of Cyclops, Iceman, Colossus, Warpath, Magneto--

"Remember, we're just here to hear them out. If we don't like it, you're taking us straight back to New York," one of several Jamies reminds me. With so many people jammed into this room like salted fish in a tin, he keeps getting bumped into.

"One of these things is not like the others," Rictor mutters. "Someone remind me why I'm here again?" He, Longshot, and I squeeze in next to--

"Shatterstar!" a delighted voice proclaims.

Across from us stands Aurora, looking positively lovely in black and white. She winks at me, then gives me a look that suggests she is picturing me naked. 

Smiling, I vault over the table, take her in my arms, and dip her into a passionate kiss. It makes me feel something like myself again.

On the way back up, my head hits something. Hard. It is her brother's elbow.

"Once again, your taste in men _astounds_ me, Jeanne-Marie," he says. 

"It's _Aurora_ , and my men are none of your business," she retorts. "It's not like you have room to talk anyway, now that everyone knows about your little affair with--"

"We are talking about _you_ right now," Northstar counters, "and your continual lamentations that there are no 'decent men' left. If you would simply open your eyes and _look_ instead of having constant, meaningless _flings_ with insipid creatures such as--"

"Pardon me," I say, as he seems displeased with me for a reason I cannot grasp. I hold out my hand to him. "My name is Shatterstar. We met briefly--"

"I _know_ who you are," he says, eyebrows arched and nose in the air. He ignores my hand. "And I _honestly_ couldn't care less."

"Hey, lay off him, alright," Rictor says, to my surprise. "Your issues with your sister are your own business. Let's not air our dirty laundry in front of everyone."

"I agree," says someone from the other end of the table. "We have serious matters to--"

Northstar makes a noise rather like a braying horse. He regards Rictor with great disdain. "And _you_ are?"

"Ooooh boy," mutters Guido as Rictor, arms crossed defiantly, informs Aurora's brother of his name.

"And what do _you_ do… Rictor?" Northstar asks. "Can you fly? Do you have super speed? Strength? Enhanced senses? Do you possess the ability to--"

"Boys," says the White Queen. "I believe we have more important things to do than compare the size of our proverbial--"

"I don't do _anything_ , okay," Rictor snaps. "I'm not a mutant anymore."

I do not like this Northstar. He is as off-putting and self-centered as he is attractive. That is to say, _devastatingly_ so. "Rictor is an excellent detective," I inform him. "He is a fair shot with his pistol, fully fluent in three different languages, and an expert in early twenty-first century computer technology." 

"Ah, and you," Northstar says to me while shooting a glare at his sister, "are _clearly_ an expert judge of character."

"Hey, you leave him the hell _alone_ ," Rictor snaps over the impolite French of Aurora's reply. "He's not even from this dimension, and your macho posturing doesn't mean crap to him, but it's pissing _me_ off. If you've got issues with him and your sister, you take them up with me, alright? In _private_."

"Oh, so _you're_ the expert judge of character," Northstar says. 

"Guys," says Jamie. "Could we, uh--"

"Well, I guess when it comes to _men_ ," Rictor counters," _you're_ the expert, huh? Wasn't there some sort of press conference about that? We all gotta defer to _your_ judgment, right?"

"So I am to be insulted for my sexuality now," Northstar counters, throwing up his hands in a theatrical manner, well aware of the scene he is making and almost good enough at it to earn my admiration. "You are a _homophobe_ , and a _useless_ one at that."

Rictor sneers in disgust. "Get over yourself, _pinche mamon_. I'm not a _homophobe_. I'm putting you in your place because you're an _ass_ , not because you're _gay_."

"Is that so?" Northstar says.

"Actually," Longshot interjects, "I think it would be hard for Rictor to be a homophobe, since _he's_ gay as well."

Silence fills the room. All eyes are trained on Rictor.

"Thanks, Longshot," he says, pressing his fingers to his temple. "That was really helpful."

Longshot shrugs. "I do what I can."

This man is an idiot.

I turn to Northstar, and the hand which I formerly offered in friendship now takes hold of the front of his uniform. His eyes narrow as I yank him toward me, his hand pressing against my chest in futile defense. No amount of speed could save him now. He says something rude, which I ignore. Into his ear, I murmur in French, "If you ever again dare to speak to Rictor in such a manner, I will cut your filthy tongue from your lying mouth, puree it, and force-feed it to you through a straw. This is not a threat; it is a promise."

Releasing him so suddenly that he topples back against Magma, I turn to Aurora. "My apologies," I tell her, as politely as possible because she is a charming person even if her twin is insane, "I enjoyed having quasi-illicit sexual relations with you very much, but I believe I am on the wrong side of the table."

Once again beside Rictor, I place my hand on his shoulder in case anyone else decides to disrespect him. They do not.

"Whenever I feel like life is spiraling out of my control," Monet muses, "I look at you two and feel _so_ much better."

"I know, right?" says Layla.

"Alright, people," Cyclops announces, entirely unperturbed. A hologram of a young man appears on the tabletop. "Let's get down to business. As you all know…"

As he briefs us on the situation-- which offers even more potential for bloodshed than I had hoped-- Tabitha appears at Rictor's side. She looks at my hand as though she would like to bite it off. "Rictor," she snarls. "I am going to _kill_ you!"

"Get in line," he says, glancing across the table at a glowering Northstar. "And get out of my face."

She grasps the lapel of his jacket and yanks his ear to her mouth to hiss, "Do you have _any_ idea how long I've been mad at you for choosing _Rahne_ instead of _me_?"

"What?" he says.

" _What?_ " says Sam.

"How can you be _gay_ with a haircut like _that_?" she demands. "And those jeans? They're _all wrong_."

"I can't believe you just said that," says Anole. He stands some way down the table beside a man who is made of rock. I smile at him. "Are we supposed to _look_ a certain way now?"

Karma adds, "Do you know how incredibly discriminatory that was, Boom-Boom?"

"Don't worry, Scott," one of the Jamies says. "They never listen to me, either."

* * * * *

"Don't talk to me right now," Rictor tells me. "Because if you do, I'm going to punch you in the face." This is the first thing he says to me upon our return. We are just inside the door. Monet has called the first shower, and Layla has led the others to the freezer for ice cream.

"Alright," I say.

He looks at me.

"I would like to talk. You may punch me," I inform him. "Or shoot me if you prefer, though I would ask that you aim well away from any vital areas."

He sighs and turns toward the stairs. "I don't feel like talking."

"Well I do," I tell him, adjusting an unruly sleeve. My jacket is ripped across the shoulder from the battle and spattered with blood, and my pants are torn at the knee. Rictor's clothing is unaltered. He remained on Utopia and monitored our teams while we fought; there was no other suitable job for him. Though he carried out his work admirably, any warrior would feel… out of sorts in such circumstances.

"Well, I don't have anything to say," he tells me.

"I want to thank you for standing up for me against Northstar," I say, forging ahead. I am almost disappointed that he has not punched me. It might do him some good. "I am very grateful. He was in the wrong to bring up such matters at a time of potentially world-altering crisis."

Rictor turns back to me with fire in his eyes. "Yeah? Well I want to thank _you_ for making _me_ look like a complete _pendejo_ in front of every mutant on the planet. Did you see how they _stared_ at me? Highlight of my fucking _life_. Now go away," he orders. "I said I don't want to talk."

"I believe it was Longshot who did that," I point out, gently.

"If you hadn't been making a spectacle of yourself with that _woman_ ," Rictor counters, "he wouldn't've said anything."

I frown. "But I am always making a spectacle of myself-- it is my nature. And why does what Longshot said _matter_? It was not an untruth. I don't understand why it upset you so."

Rictor scowls. "Look, I just… I don't want to be lumped together with Northstar and Anole and," he looks over his shoulder for assurance that we are alone, and lowers his voice, "and go to _Pride parades_ and wear _rainbows_ and _pink triangles,_ and watch Broadway _musicals_ and talk about _gaydar_. Okay? I don't want to be stereotyped that way. I don't want to be _judged_ because of who I'm attracted to. I just want to be _me_."

"I would never judge you for your taste in colors or geometrical designs, and I don't see why anyone else would, either," I assure him. 

"They're _symbols_ ," he insists, agitated for a reason I cannot grasp. "Every man who likes men is supposed to be a certain way-- it's this _gay lifestyle_ idea-- and I don't wanna be part of that shit. It's degrading." 

"You write off a valid identity as a gay man as _degrading_ , yet you desire to be identified as a mutant, something which you are _not_?" I ask, confused.

"Do you really have to keep _reminding_ me? It's like part of me _died_ , and nobody has the _decency_ to let it lie," he snaps.

"But being in a parade sounds enjoyable," I tell him encouragingly. "We could be on a float. And throw candy!"

"You're unbelievable," he says.

"Perhaps," I concede. I set a hand on his shoulder. "But when you say you are only trying to be yourself, this is untrue. Maybe you have come out of the cupboard, but you are still clinging to the door with a death grip. It does not become you, Rictor."

" _Closet_ , Star," he mutters, pulling away from my touch. 

"What _ever_ ," I tell him. "If you truly wish to be the man you were born to be, you should ignore what other people think instead of altering your behavior to fit their standards. Rainbows never hurt anyone, and pink would suit your skin tone. Anole seems friendly-- though he kisses terribly-- and we would have fun in a parade together. You are lying to yourself."

"You know what?" he says. "I'm leaving. I've had it. I can't take any more of this. I'm outta here." He heads back toward the door, not looking at me, and zips up his jacket.

"But we've just returned," I insist. "And my clothing is bloody. Where are we going?"

" _We're_ not going. _I'm_ going," he corrects. 

I shake my head, baffled. "But where--"

"Anywhere but here," he says. "Do _not_ follow me. And don't count on seeing me anytime soon."

Stunned, I can only watch as he storms out the door, slamming it with all his might. The action has all the dramatic finality of a season-ending soap opera cliffhanger. I imagine the camera panning from the door to my dismayed face, and the voiceover inviting viewers to tune in next season for the shocking conclusion. 

If only someone had shown me the script.

I sit down on the stairs and tug at my torn sleeve again. The hallway feels so very empty without him. _Everything_ feels empty without him. The emotion this evokes defies definition, but it is not a pleasant one. It burns like acid.

I wish Rictor were here to explain it to me.

This thought upsets me terribly.

"Wow," says Layla, coming down the stairs with an ice cream cone in her hand. "That sounded really unpleasant. You should buy me some tequila. I'm underage, so I can't get it myself, but I'm pretty sure it's going to come in handy."

It takes me a moment to comprehend the implications of her presence.

"You know the future. You _knew_ this would happen," I accuse, "yet you did nothing. You let Rictor leave and didn't even warn me. You chose _ice cream_ over your own teammates!"

"It's not that simple, Shatterstar," she attempts to explain. "Maybe I know stuff, but that doesn't mean I can _change_ anything. What's meant to happen is going to happen no matter what. I just sometimes… help things along."

"Then you… _helped_ Rictor leave," I say. 

She shrugs.

And suddenly the pieces fall into place. 

"It was _you_ the whole time! You broke the washing machine on _purpose_ , didn't you?" I demand. "You sent me to that laundromat because you knew I would meet that man, and it would upset Rictor to be asked to pierce his tongue. You took me to Toronto shopping because you _knew_ Rictor would not go, and you _knew_ I would meet Aurora, and it would drive Rictor from me. You even foresaw his upsetting confrontation with Northstar!"

She smiles. "Yeah, pretty much. Roberto actually would've called Ric on the whole gay thing earlier if I hadn't taken him into the hall and made out with him, but that bitch fight on Utopia was _way_ too entertaining! Oh, and I made sure to bring up Rictor's suicide attempt to Rahne so she'd mention it to you, too."

I stare at her in disbelief.

"Also," she adds, "I ate all your pizza the other day, just to make sure you were good and riled. Gave me a stomachache, though. Next time, less olives."

"This is all _your_ fault," I gape, feeling numb. "Rictor may never come back. You have ruined my _life_!"

"Sure," Layla shrugs. She licks her ice cream and holds out a twenty dollar bill. " _Now_ could you get me some tequila?"


	7. Chapter 7

* * SEVEN * *

Layla is attempting to convince Guido to buy her tequila. Just a little bottle from the liquor store on the corner, where the drunks shop and aged men in decades-old hats browse pornographic magazines. He can keep the change, but she really needs the liquor. Why? Because she knows stuff.

Guido brushes past me, grumbling about the unfairness of his god having adorned women with breasts. The door closes, and I am alone again.

I am so very alone that it feels… 

It is too much. Everything is made of nothingness. I cannot comprehend it, the enormity of this aloneness. The void threatens to swallow my very being. But it is not only _I_ who am alone, and this is the worst part.

Rictor cannot be on his own. The last time this happened, after Mexico, he nearly-- and Rahne and Jamie stopped him, but-- He _needs_ me! But he no longer wants me. He has left. He walked out the door in front of my very eyes. He _left_ me. Again.

I am alone. 

So is he.

Rictor will kill himself. I know this. I feel it in my _uemeur_. He has a gun. He will put it to his head, pull the trigger, and---

I cannot breathe. 

I cannot breathe, I cannot think, and there is that Za-forsaken _feeling_ again, the dead thing, laughing with its dead voice. Its skin peels from its body, blackened teeth grinning through cracked lips, and its stench suffocates me. I fall to my knees.

I push it away, reach for my weapon, but find myself defenseless. It laughs and draws its dead fingers across my cheek. Its touch is like maggots. My skin crawls, bile rising in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my head between my knees. 

_What's wrong, corazon_ , it hisses. _Que ya no me quieres?_

I gasp, but no breath fills my lungs. I press my hands over my ears. But I cannot escape my own mind. I have created this thing, nurtured this _horror_ in my own heart. And now I must live with it.

I did not know myself before, but I do now. What I have become makes me ill: this creature and I, we are one and the same. It is all that I've not known, or misjudged, or not cared enough about to do right. It is neglect, it is guilt, it is sorrow; it is loss, emptiness, regret.

It is Rictor dead because I stood aside and watched him leave. 

And it is _all my fault_.

I cannot breathe; I cannot think. 

My fingers tear at my hair.

A hand is on my back, and a voice calls out. Theresa, but I cannot fathom the idea of Theresa. She is nothing, she is meaningless. What is _Theresa_?

I dig my fingernails into the floor and bang my forehead against the tiles.

More voices come, and another hand on my back. I do not know them. I do not know anything.

I am frightened.

This thing has a hold of me, this disgusting piece of my soul, and I cannot pull away. Its evil floods my lungs like drowning. I try to calm myself, try to breathe, try to stop these terrifying noises coming from my own throat. I cannot.

Another voice, a door slamming, but when I look up, the world is engulfed in darkness. Female voices, male voices, too-large hand on my shoulder. My head spins. The room tilts. Something being pressed to my face. A voice in my ear: Jamie.

He tells me to breathe, breathe _normally_ , try to calm down. Concentrate on breathing normally. You're hyperventilating. Just breathe. Slow, even breaths.

I squeeze my eyes shut and obey because I have no other option. I am a slave once more, in a cage of my own making.

"Good… good," Jamie says. "Nice, calm breaths. There we go. Nice and even. Okay."

"An hour and a half ago, I watched him behead a man without so much as flinching," Monet is saying. "Why is he freaking out _now_?"

Longshot asks, "Is it because--"

" _Ixnay_ on the _icray_ ," Layla says.

"He'll be fine," Theresa announces, pulling me up onto my knees. "It's just stress. Now Shatterstar, I want you to hold this over your mouth and nose, alright? Can you do that?"

Her hand places mine against my face, and I feel paper beneath my fingers. "Good," says Jamie. "Hold it right there until you're feeling better. That'll keep you from getting too much oxygen. Where the hell is _Guido_? I didn't send him out for a stroll!"

My vision begins to return, the world tipping back into place, and I bring both hands to the paper bag into which I've been breathing. For a moment, I think of something that is not _breathe, breathe, breathe_ , and begin to feel overwhelmed again. Then someone pats my back.

"How ya holdin' up, kid?" Guido asks.

"Mmmpph," I bemoan. The paper bag crinkles in and out with my labored breaths.

"Yeah, sounds about right," he agrees.

"You look _awful_ ," confirms Longshot.

"What the _fuck_?" demands Rictor. "I was gone for _ten minutes_!"

And then I can no longer breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut and press the bag to my face as though my life depends upon it. Perhaps it does. Please let this not be that creature again! Please let it be the real Rictor, _my_ Rictor, unharmed, with his brains still firmly held within the blessed haven of his skull!

"He's having a panic attack," Jamie says. "This ever happened with him before?"

" _What?_ " says Rictor. "No! Star's steady as a _rock_ , you know that!"

"Except when it comes to _you_ ," Theresa notes.

I press my forehead against the floor, but the coolness of the tile offers no comfort.

"I was just going out for a drink!" Rictor insists. "Well, okay, a _lot_ of drinks. I was getting into a cab when Guido told me Star was--"

"Say, you heard the one about the taxi driver and the nun?" Guido asks. "See, there's this nun--"

"Not now," says Jamie. "I beg of you."

A gentle hand presses against my neck. Rictor's hand. _My_ Rictor.

I look up at his beautifully unshaven face, and my heart does strange things in my chest. He is the most magnificent thing I have ever seen in my life.

My paper bag goes _crinkle, crinkle, crinkle_.

Rictor kneels down beside me and strokes his fingers through my hair. It feels so good, I wish he would never stop. I could die this way. I wish I could tell him.

"What are you doing freaking out on us?" he asks. "You scaring everyone half to death just 'cause I left?"

Weakly, with a head that feels lighter than air and possibly full of cotton, I nod.

Rictor sighs and pulls me to him, arm around my back and fingers still stroking through my hair. I rest my cheek on his shoulder. He murmurs, "God, Star, you look like hell. I don't even know what to do with you anymore, _corazon._ " 

I moan and curl into a ball against him, as Rahne's baby does in her womb. I wish he could protect me from myself, the way Rahne protects her unborn child. Of all the awful things I've encountered in my life, it is myself that I fear the most.

No. It is _only_ myself that I fear.

"So this _nun_ ," says Guido, "she's holding a newspaper all rolled up, and she starts hitting herself over the head with it. The taxi driver says--"

"Alright, crisis averted!" announces Layla. "Everyone back upstairs before your ice cream melts. You can have the rest of the tub, Guido. I've got it from here."

"If any of you _ever_ gets me out of the shower again for something that is not a life-threatening emergency," Monet states, "I _will_ strangle you with my bare hands."

"--and then the nun just starts rippin' the clothes right off her body, and she throws 'em out the window! Pretty soon, she's sittin' there stark naked in the back seat, and the taxi driver--"

"Come on, upstairs," Jamie tells him. "You heard the woman."

"Oh, and Ric," says Layla. Her voice comes from over my left shoulder. I realize my eyes have drifted shut. "I'm going to leave this tequila here for you. I had Guido buy it for me, but I really only needed the bag the clerk put it in so your boyfriend could not-hyperventilate on us. Stuff tastes like crap."

"You are creepy as hell," Rictor tells her. "But thanks."

"Consider it my contribution to the cause. Also," she adds, "I have a couple of things to say after _Theresa_ goes upstairs."

" 'Sorry,' the nun says. 'Bad habit!' Haha, get it? Bad _habit_?" Guido's laughter drifts down to us. "Because, you know, nuns wear…"

"Fine, fine," says Theresa. "I think I need to smack Guido for that one, anyway. But I just want to say that as imperfect as Shatterstar may be, he has a good heart, Ric. He really cares about you, even when he's being thickheaded. Don't be too hard on him, alright?"

"Nicely stated," says Layla. "You are a credit to your lineage. You can go now."

Theresa sighs and squeezes my shoulder in a comforting manner. " _Please_ try not to say anything stupid, okay?" she implores. I hope I don't let her down, but sometimes not saying anything stupid is so _hard_.

"Okay, now are you going to tell me what the hell is going on, Layla?" Rictor demands. His words are harsh, but his hands are still soft. "I know you know, and I want _answers_."

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," she says. "And if you think I'm joking, that only shows you how little you understand. The person we really need answers from is _you_. Well, it's actually just _one_ answer-- and it's not even a hard question! Just tell me this: is Shatterstar in love with you?"

Rictor makes an annoyed noise in his throat. I press my forehead against the warm column of his neck. "I'm not talking to you about that. It's _private_."

"Not really. I know stuff, remember?" she tells him.

"You can take your _stuff_ ," Rictor informs her, "and shove it up your--"

"You're a _detective_ now," Layla says. "I want you to consider all the evidence-- including the nearly invincible, genetically enhanced warrior who just had a mental breakdown in the entryway because you walked out on him-- and give me your best professional analysis."

Rictor says nothing. His body stiffens and hand goes still. He rests his palm against the back of my head.

"Julio?" I ask. "What is she saying?" Speaking is difficult, and my voice sounds strange, as though I've been yelling for a very long time. It is also perhaps hard to understand, as I'm still breathing into my tequila bag.

"Shatterstar, you can put that down," Layla tells me. "You're fine now, the panic attack's over."

What she says is true. I feel unreasonably exhausted, lightheaded, and possibly too weak to stand, but this "attack" ceased when Rictor returned to me. The evil creature inside me has gone, or at least retreated to some dark corner. I feel no need to locate it. Let it lurk forever.

I set down the bag and wipe a hand across my face. It is wet with sweat, and bloody still from battle. I blink my newly-opened eyes, glance at the blonde shock of Layla's hair, and rest my head back against Rictor's shoulder. 

"Do this now, Rictor," Layla orders. "The longer you take, the worse it'll be. And if you're not done by the time the ice cream's gone, you owe me twenty bucks for the booze." And then she leaves, her footsteps resounding in the silence of the hallway as she retreats up the stairs.

Rictor lets go of me, leaning his back against the wall and taking his tequila in hand. I feel lost, astray… _empty_ without his touch. "Please don't leave," I beg of him.

"I'm not leaving," he says, taking a pull from the bottle. He swallows audibly. "I was never _leaving_. I was just going out to get plastered and… do things I'd regret with someone whose name I wouldn't remember in the morning. I wasn't quitting the _team_."

I reach out and press my fingertips to his knee. "Rictor," I plead, "I have been horrible to you. You are right to be angry. I have been the worst boyfriend in the entire dimension. In _any_ dimension!"

"Star--"

"But I can change!" I hurry to finish pleading my case, head swimming. " _Please_ don't leave me. Life means nothing without you! I-- I will do better. I will learn to treat you the way you deserve. I swear it on my _uemeur!_ "

Rictor sets down the tequila bottle. He concentrates very hard on its label. "Star, about what Layla said… I want you to understand something, okay? You're not the only one who gets confused by emotions. They confuse _everybody_. Even understanding _ourselves_ is hard, and unless we're telepaths, we can't really know what someone else is feeling. Does that makes sense? So when I told you you didn't love me, I was… I don't know. I was upset. Maybe… I wasn't thinking right."

"What does that mean? You think I… Do I…" I try to contemplate his words, but I am tired, and my thoughts are fuzzy. "I _love_ you?"

Rictor lifts the bottle to his lips. He swallows and runs the back of his hand across his eyes. They are wet. He gives me a crooked smile, raises one shoulder, and then lowers it. "Yeah," he says. "I guess so."

And finally it all make sense. Red-faced, Rictor wipes at his tears and takes another drink of tequila and says nothing. He does not look at me. But this is fine. I understand now. My life makes sense. A very human thing has happened to me: I am in _love_.

Unashamed, I rest my cheek against Rictor's thigh and sob.

I don't know how long we stay like this. I don't even know why I'm crying. But it's not a bad feeling; it is as though all the evil emotions are leaving with my tears, cleansing me. Rictor drinks tequila and strokes his fingers through my hair. He murmurs soft words in Spanish. When Theresa comes down and asks if everything is alright, he tells her _Yeah_.

When Rictor's drink is gone, he pats me on the back. "Come on, let's get you someplace more comfortable," he tells me. 

I sit up, wiping my swollen eyes against my jacket, my fingers clinging to his shirt. His arm hooks under my legs, and he hoists me up against him. 

"I can walk," I lie.

"Don't even start that crap with me," he says. This makes me happy. I thought Rictor was dead, and now he is being _mouthy_ with me!

Rictor carries me easily enough, despite not being in the physical shape he was when we left X-Force. Only the length of my legs make the journey awkward, and he has to step sideways up the stairs. Also, I think he is a bit drunk. I loop my arms around his shoulders and press my cheek against his shoulder.

I think for a moment that he plans to deposit me on the couch, but he does not. He carries me to our bed and lays me on its unwashed sheets and curls up beside me. His body is warm against me, and the whole room smells like him, and I think again that I could die like this, in his arms, with no regrets.

"I love you," I tell him. It feels right.

"I want you to stop having sex with other people," he says.

"Okay," I tell him.

"Unless you _ask_ first," he continues, as though he's not heard me. "Because I'm sure it's just a phase, and if I _know_ about it, it's one thing, but if--"

"I said _okay_ ," I repeat. "Being with others has no value if I cannot share the experiences with you. My _uemeur_ has no connection with these people, nor do I want it to."

"Not even with that… Aurora?" Rictor asks, making a face. "She's… pretty hot. And I bet she knows what she's doing, you know, in bed."

"She is quite skilled," I admit, "and possesses intriguing sex toys. But she is not _you_ and never could be. Also, her twin is crazy. I will not see her again. I am willing to make this compromise in the name of love." 

"Oh," he says, and doesn't look me in the eye.

"But _you_ will need to compromise as well," I inform him, as this seems only fair. "I want you to stop interacting with Rahne. You need to return the highchair. You will not continue to be her fake _babydaddy_." 

Rictor sighs. "Where did you hear that _word_? And no, I _won't_ stop talking to Rahne, and I'm not taking any of her things back. Look, you don't _get_ it. Maybe the baby's not mine, but I'm stepping up to the plate. She's got a lot of things weighing on her right now, and if I don't help, who's going to? There's this… There was this guy in ancient Greece. You remember the movie _300_?"

"Entirely unrealistic, but highly theatrical and entertaining," I nod, pleased with the reference. "The wall of corpses was visually stunning."

"Yeah, so back then, there was this dude who walked around in the daytime with a lantern. People asked his crazy ass what he was doing, and he said, 'I'm looking for a man.' Like, a _real_ man. Somebody who'd stand up for what he believed in and do what was right. Even back _then_ , it was hard to find one."

"Then buy Rahne a lantern," I advise him. "But return the highchair."

Rictor sighs. "Look, I got the thing for twenty bucks at Goodwill. Rahne's my friend, and I'm not abandoning her. You're being really selfish, Star."

I shake my head, upset at his suggestion. I feel that I might cry again. "I am _not_ , Rictor! If I am to commit entirely to _you_ , then you must commit entirely to _me_. You are _my_ boyfriend. By right, those happy fish are mine. _Mine_ , Rictor!"

He stares at me. "I have no clue what you're talking about."

"You bought Rahne happy fish. On that highchair. Their color palate is pleasing to the eye!" I insist, fighting back the tears as I slide my hand into my pocket. "Yet you buy _me_ nothing, and you reject my gifts."

He gapes at the bracelet I hold before him. "Where did you _find_ that?" he asks, taking it from me with gentle fingers. 

"Shower," I tell him, wiping my eyes. Now that my tear ducts have begun to leak, they seem unable to stop. I hope I have not broken them.

Rictor shakes his head. "I bent the clasp at the shooting range, and it wouldn't stay on. I thought it fell off on the way back or…" he shakes his head again and puts the bracelet in his pocket. "Look, we have a lot to work on, but I want things to work out, okay? I want _us_ to work out. For a while, I wasn't sure if I did, but… now I am."

"Because I love you?" I ask.

He nods and looks about to cry as well. I press my palm to his cheek. He slides his lips across to kiss it. "Nobody's ever felt that way about me before," he says, voice rough. "And I want to explain what that _means_ to me, but I'm _really_ not sober right now, and it's _pissing me off_."

"Let's sleep," I tell him. "You can explain later."

"You stink," he says. "Your clothes, I mean. You're all bloody."

I know this but hadn't thought of it. "You should take them off," I tell him, as the very idea of undressing seems daunting. 

"If that's a request for sex," Rictor says, "it's the lamest one I've ever heard."

"No sex. Too tired," I tell him, holding my eyes open by sheer force of will. The bed is so comfortable. But then I start to worry. "Though I _could_. If _you_ need it, I could--"

"No, you couldn't," Rictor tells me. He is not angry. "Go to sleep. My sheets are filthy anyway. I hate doing laundry. Sex later."

"Sex later," I agree, adjusting my body more comfortably beside him. "And more talking."

"And more talking," he confirms. "And nobody leaving anyone again. Ever."

"And happy fish, Rictor. My happy fish…" I add, sleep settling in.

"And happy fish," he whispers, and kisses my cheek. My consciousness dims, but before exhaustion overtakes me, I could almost swear I hear him whisper that he loves me too.

* * * * *

If we have no case, Friday night is Movie Night. Of course we watch movies every other night as well, but Friday is special. Rictor and I have purchased a small television for our room, and we lie naked on his bed together eating nachos and chilidogs and other substances which sometimes resemble actual food. Rictor drinks beer and frequently touches my backside. I usually make it to the end of the movie before I am able to think of nothing but making passionate love to him, but we sometimes have to pause the film.

This is not my fault. 

When I told Rictor that he had not fully accepted himself for who he was, he took my words to heart. He says he no longer cares if he "looks gay" as long as he finds his reflection in the mirror agreeable. Fuck everyone else, he says. He is going to be true to _himself_.

The first thing he did was cut his hair. He says it is called a "foe hawk." He had a full "mow hawk" in his youth but has attempted to destroy any evidence supporting this fact. 

"I was going for a macho look, but it didn't really work out," he told me. "I looked fake, like I was trying too hard. I can't believe Tab fell for it." I nodded gravely and pretended I knew what he was saying. His hair looks nice regardless of the type of bird it is.

But the crux of the issue-- my utter lack of restraint in his presence-- is not his hair. Nor is it the scarlet and black tattoo he's had emblazoned across his forearm. It is his lip piercing. 

He had the rod placed so that the ball sits directly in the middle of his bottom lip, shining up silver and enticing, and I often find myself watching his lips move instead of listening to his words. Imagining what those lips could be doing to me, I control myself with great difficulty. 

Occasionally, I do not.

One Tuesday, Rictor and I were watching _Alien_ _vs. Predator_ in the living room, and Guido walked in on us. Rictor was faced with the arduous task of explaining away several stereotypes about gay sex, stressing that real couples do not hold to artificial titles or roles. Sex between men is a highly fluid, organic process. Though Rictor explained it more like, "There's lots of options, man. Only guys who are total prudes don't try 'em out. It's _normal_ , I swear."

I believe this might have something to do with the fact that I had Rictor bent over the back of the couch and moaning my name.

I am still (to my relief) forbidden form speaking with Guido about sex, but if anyone presses the issue, I have promised to deny that Rictor is "the girl" with my dying breath. This seems self-evident, as he has no breasts but a distinctly pleasing _verga_ , so it is hardly a difficult promise to make.

But tonight is Friday, and Guido will not interrupt our lovemaking with his uninformed conceptions of masculine sexual congress. We are alone in our room, and I am free to do as I please to my boyfriend's body. For now, I am content with my nachos and sauce of pseudo-cheese, and cuddling with Rictor and my Finding Nemo pillow. 

True to his word, Rictor bought me my happy fish. It is fluffy and orange. Jamie tells me I cannot take it on missions.

"It's really ruining the whole _noir_ feel, y'know?" he explained.

To compensate, Rictor has sewn happy fish patches into the pockets of my pants. That way, I can take them wherever I go, and no one will be the wiser.

"Don't tell anyone," he said when he first took needle and thread to them, "but I used to sew a lot when I was little. My cousins and me made clothes for their dolls. Eventually, one of my uncles caught me at it and said boys don't do that kind of stuff. But I really liked to stitch up those little ruffled dresses. There was one I made with this pink, shiny sort of… I told you not to tell anyone I said this, right? Don't tell anyone, Star. Okay?"

I agreed, though I told him the skill seemed a useful one, and I was glad he had learned in his youth. "Also, when we create something, be it an object, action, or even battle strategy, we put a part of ourselves into it," I explained to him. "And this way, I will always have you in my pants." 

Rictor stared at me. 

"For the times I cannot have you in my mouth," I clarified.

He went back to sewing, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. 

I grinned and I went back to doing pantsless sit-ups. 

It was a happy time.

Rictor laughs at something in our movie, and I realize I have not been watching. Johnny Depp makes a believable pirate, but he is in no way comparable to the man I have beside me. Rictor's naked body is a sight to behold, especially that juncture of soft skin where his waist meets his hips, and he lounges about the bed with such casual grace. He munches on a nacho, licking away the imitation cheese. His tongue flicks across the metal ball on his lip, and I set Nemo aside.

"Pause it," I tell him.

"Huh?" he says.

In one fluid motion, I flip him onto his back and press my mouth to the smooth skin beneath his navel. He swears and reaches blindly for the remote. I slide a hand between his thighs.

Someone knocks on the door. "Guys?" says Jamie. "We're heading to the hospital. Rahne's having contractions."

"Wha-- _aaah shit, Star_!" Rictor gasps. His fist in my hair pulls my mouth away. "What do you mean _contractions_? She's having the baby? _Now?_ "

"I think that was the plan," Jamie tells him, "but if you want me to ask her to wait until after you two are finished…"

I presume this is a poor attempt at a joke and throw Rictor his pants. "Coming!" I yell to Jamie.

"Okay, _not_ quite sure how to interpret that," Jamie replies.

But by then, we are both dressed, Johnny Depp is paused with his mouth open and hand on his hip, and Rictor is grabbing a bag of supplies he's packed for the hospital trip. A baby quilt and can of Pringles poke up from its depths.

I am excited. I have never held an infant before, much less seen one being born. Rahne wants Rictor in the room with her when it happens, and when I asked if I could join them, she said yes. This was after I apologized for being cruel to her and explained about Rictor and the fish, and how I mistakenly believed she was attempting to steal my boyfriend. It was an honest error: Rictor is such an appealing partner that I would fault someone in her position for _not_ wanting to steal him. 

"Not to burst your bubble, Shatterstar," she replied, "but I've been with him, and he's really _not_ that great."

I resisted informing her of the utter ridiculousness of this statement, instead offering to teach her child swordsmanship when it reached a proper age.

"Considering that the baby's half wolf god, I don't think swords will be necessary," she told me, patting her gargantuan abdomen, "but that's sweet of you."

"So tell me again," I prompt Rictor as we follow Jamie down the stairs, "how big will the baby be when it comes out?"

"Eight or nine pounds, probably," Rictor tells me. "And Rahne will be able to take it home in a couple of days if it's healthy. And no, it won't break if you pick it up, as long as you're gentle and put your hand behind its head."

"Because babies' necks are weak, and they have soft spots on their skulls that I should not press my fingers into," I continue, as we have had this conversation numerous times. It is one of my favorites because Rictor likes it so much. He really wants this baby to come. He wishes it were his. 

"Will I get to change its diapers?" I ask happily, already knowing the answer.

"Knock yourself out," Rictor repeats. I love this expression. It is so humorously bellicose: _Knock yourself out!  
_  
"You are sure they won't keep it in an incubator for several months, feeding it chemically simulated milk and audio-enhanced video images of its future life?" I continue.

"Okay, if you two haven't already realized how screwed up this conversation is," Jamie interjects, "I'd like you to take this moment to reflect on it."

I smile because I have reflected on it very much. I even asked Theresa if my idea was a good one. She stared at me for some time without blinking and told me she'd have to think about it. When I asked again, she told me I was incredibly disturbing, and she wasn't sure how Rictor would feel about it. Was it even humane? 

But I still like my idea. Incubators are not so bad. I don't even remember being in one. And Rictor wants a family so very much. He presumes I cannot give him this, but he is wrong. 

I know a guy.

But I also know that relationships take time to build, and I would not want to push Rictor into something before he is ready. Or before _I_ am ready. 

That dead feeling-- or collection of feelings, I suppose-- still haunts me at times. Like when Rictor and I must part for a case, or when Monet sunbathes on the roof. And once during a commercial for Old Spice, though Longshot admitted that its cinematography gave him strange feelings of guilt as well. We felt better after visiting Walgreens and discovering that the product did not smell as we had imagined. I blame Mojo.

"Alright, everyone's here!" Jamie announces as we make our way off the stairs and into the entryway. 

Rictor rushes to Rahne's side, asking her hurried questions about pregnancy that I don't understand. She tells him to shut up and get moving unless he wants to deliver the baby himself.

"Well, at least nobody's going to get shot this time," Theresa says. She looks upset--wistful, perhaps, though I am still no expert in judging these things-- which is strange. I can't imagine why she would wish anyone injury.

Layla hugs her. "Don't worry, we're here for you," she says. It is only then that I remember that Theresa once gave birth but… _lost_ the child.

This makes me sad as well. The world can be so unjust. Dying with honor is as important as living with it, but a newborn has no chance to do either. How could such an unfinished life have meaning? Rictor would be devastated if Rahne's baby met the same fate. The very concept is horrific. 

Layla and Theresa are still hugging, and I wrap my arms around them both in fellow feeling. But they are very soft and smell nice, and my body is still thinking of Rictor naked, and I should probably not be doing this.

Theresa kisses my cheek in a thankfully chaste manner. Layla whispers in my ear, "Make sure you get Ric's gun away from him before we get to the hospital. But don't let him know you're doing it. Things will be better that way. Okay?"

I have no idea what this means, but agree nonetheless. I trust Layla, and Layla knows stuff.

Contemplating strategies of gun-removal, I follow the others out the door. If I sit beside Rictor on the way over… he will likely hold Rahne's hand in support until we reach our destination. In the mean time, she will make various noises of distress, and he will ignore me. His gun is hidden beneath his shirt; relieving him of it should pose no problem.

Would it be alright to feel him up in the process?

I do hope so.

 

END!

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted on LiveJournal in 2011.


End file.
